


Departure Strategy

by choranaptyxic, emmbrancsxx0



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assisted Suicide, Cancer, Character Death, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2020 (Supernatural), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, POV Castiel (Supernatural), Pining, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:53:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27233044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choranaptyxic/pseuds/choranaptyxic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0
Summary: Castiel works for the Departure Network, a semi-legal organization dealing in assisted suicides for the terminally ill. When he’s put on Mary Winchester’s case, he meets Dean and Sam. Dean hates Mary’s decision to follow through with the plan and, by extension, hates Castiel. But, as the two get to know each other, something begins to grow between them, and Castiel finds himself breaking the first rule of his job: Don’t get attached.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 125
Kudos: 337
Collections: DCBB 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

“I’ve laid out the necessary materials, Ms. Baker. You understand that protocol forbids me from doing anything further to aid you in your departure?”

Mildred Baker’s eyes were on the opaque plastic hood folded next to her on her bed, the bright pink and yellow floral pattern of her comforter popping in the setting sun streaming through the west-facing window of her room. She had wanted to do this at sunset, as she had told Castiel on their very first meeting six weeks prior. She said it was her favorite time of the day; that she even paid extra in her rent at the senior living facility to get a unit on this side of the complex.

She brought her gaze up to him, standing next to the bed, and there wasn’t a speck of regret in them. There was fear, of course, but it was minimal to what Castiel had seen in others. She gave him a soft smile, more to comfort herself than him. “Yes, dear. I read the contract before I signed it, if you remember.”

He nodded. He didn’t need comfort. He was only there for her, because she had no one else.

Mildred Baker was a seventy-four year old woman, long retired from life as a traveling showgirl. She had performed in every state in America, and many countries in Europe. France was her favorite because she liked the chocolate there. She was kind and warm and had a distinct flare that was so very hard to find in this world.

She also had stage six dementia, a living will, and no spouse or children. She did have a niece in Omaha, but they had lost touch over a decade ago. She had contacted the Departure Network eight weeks ago, and Castiel was assigned to her case.

He liked her. It was difficult not to. But he reminded himself not to get attached. This job required a certain kind of professional impassiveness, just like a surgeon performing an amputation or a public attorney defending the accused, like a funeral director offering the bereaved a box of tissues. He had a specific duty to carry out and he intended to follow through. Anything else was against policy.

“Good,” he said, schooling his thoughts into something more orderly. “Protocol also requires me to ensure you don’t have any doubts about what is about to happen, that you’re of sound mind, and you understand that you can still opt out.”

“Yes, yes,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I haven’t changed my mind. No use in me waiting until I can’t speak and need help getting out of bed in the morning.” She sighed, and it rattled slightly. Her eyes turned to the fiery sunset over the horizon outside the window. “No. I’ve had a good life. I’m ready.”

And that was that. Castiel moved to the other side of the bed and sat down in the wooden chair beside her, taking care not to block her view of the sunset. “Take as long as you need to begin.”

He didn’t necessarily mean that. The nurses would be making their rounds in an hour, and one would knock on Ms. Baker’s door to provide her medications. Castiel needed to be gone by then.

Luckily, she didn’t take very long as all. She picked up the hood, the plastic tube connecting it to the nitrogen tank propped up beside her dragging across the comforter. She gave another breath, as if relishing in her last inhale of fresh air, and placed the hood on her lap. “Thank you, Castiel,” she said. “Would it be too much to ask you for one more thing?”

He tilted his head to the side, eyes steady and imploring. “Anything you ask.”

She smiled again, this time sadly. “Could you hold my hand?”

Castiel told himself that heartbreak wasn’t a part of the job. From the moment he met Ms. Baker, he knew how their relationship would end. Like this. Just like all the others. He’d traveled across the country, to the sick and the dying, to assist them in taking their own lives before their illnesses consumed them. And he believed he was doing the right thing, despite the law, despite the run-ins he’s had with it. But he couldn’t afford attachment. Steeling himself was the only option. It was for the best.

Heartbreak could not be a part of the job.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat and looked down at her upturned palm on the bed. Her expression was fragile, but brave, and he knew he was meant to be the brave one. Keeping his voice even and his composure intact, he said, “Of course,” and fit his hand into hers. It was soft and delicate, but strong from years of work.

He wasn’t supposed to do that. He was supposed to sit back and observe only. He was not supposed to get involved in any way.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze of assurance. She knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Well, then,” she laughed thickly. “Here goes.”

With her free hand, she unfolded the hood and picked it up. She glanced once more at him, and then at the fading sunset, and pulled it over her head. It snagged slightly on her ear, and he had the urge to politely reach up and held her fix it so she wouldn’t have to struggle. But he couldn’t. It wasn’t protocol. He fisted his free hand and watched her until the hood was on correctly and the cord at the neckline was pulled closed.

Mildred Baker felt around on the bed for the nitrogen tank and, when found, she pulled it closer to her body. She wrapped her hand around the gauge and turned it; and then laid back. Castiel heard her sigh again.

It took thirty seconds for her to fall asleep, her grip slackening around his.

Twenty minutes later, Castiel checked her pulse. She was gone.

///

After, Castiel returned to his motel room with a cheeseburger from the local diner in a to-go box. He plopped it down on the small table in the corner of the room to fill out the final paperwork for Ms. Baker. He didn’t know how much he’d actually eat, as he usually didn’t have much of an appetite after assisting in a departure; and, honestly, living off soggy diner food for the last six weeks was beginning to get disgusting. Not that he wasn’t used to it.

He rarely had a home cooked meal, because he was rarely home. And, when he was, it didn’t do him much good because he’d never excelled at cooking. He knew how to make pasta and heat up a TV dinner in the microwave, but that was about the extent of it. He even managed to burn popcorn every time he attempted to make it.

Anna used to say he’d find a way to burn cereal. She was the cook in the family. Or, she used to be.

Castiel didn’t allow himself to pause. He took the manila file folder out from his worn soft leather, cross body briefcase and set it down on the table next to his container of food. He fished out his fountain pen and got to work.

Ms. Baker had already filled out most of the final consent form. He just had to complete it.

 _Mildred Baker  
_ _Lawrence, KA_  
 _Date: 09/17/2019  
_ _Time of Death: 07:42 PM_

He signed his name at the bottom and set down his pen. He remembered his food then, and the plastic bag crinkled in an all-too familiar sound as he took out the to-go box. The bag was white and it had an obnoxious smiley face on both sides with the works _Thank you! Come again!_ in blue below it. He opened the Styrofoam box to find the limp, lukewarm burger and spongey fries inside.

He picked up the burger, rotating it a few times in his hand as if looking for a more appetizing angle.

He dropped his shoulders apathetically, and set the burger back down.

It was best to do something useful.

He stood up and picked the file folder up from the table, then left the motel room. There was a supply store a little way down the road that he’d been using to fax the paperwork back to his superiors over the last few weeks, and they would still be open at this time of night. He decided to walk instead of drive, because at least that would eat up some of his time before he had to get in the car tomorrow to drive back to Boston. It would be a two-day journey with minimal stops for gas, coffee, and sleep, so he knew he should stretch his legs while he had the chance.

The evening air of Lawrence was crisp and clear, and a lot more breathable than what he was used to in the city. It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet but, as he walked through town, he noticed the majority of the shops were already closed for the night. The bars and restaurants, as well as the supermarket, were open, their interior lighting spilling out through the windows and revealing the people inside as they shopped and drank and laughed.

Castiel put his hands into the pockets of his coat and kept walking. It occurred to him that he might actually miss Lawrence, not because it was anything special; in fact, he’d seen hundreds of towns just like it. But it reminded him of the town he grew up in. It was small, and cold in the winter, hot in the summer. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself back east.

And he could imagine Anna walking next to him on their way home from school.

He didn’t close his eyes. He didn’t much care for returning east. No one would be waiting for him, anyway. He didn’t even have a plant to welcome him home. He’d tried to tend a few over the years, but he was simply gone too much of the time to care for anything.

Everything kept dying on him.

///

The next morning, the sun was barely a line on the horizon as Castiel threw his toiletry bag into his luggage to head out. He didn’t have much with him, as experience had taught him how to pack light. He carried enough for a week between laundry days—a few pairs of slacks, seven button-up shirts, pajamas, socks, jogging clothes, and a suit and tie for the primary meeting with a candidate and their departure date. He was in an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt at the moment, ready to set out into the gray dawn for the long trip to Boston, when his cell phone started to ring.

He furrowed his brow at the caller ID, and picked up the phone. “Gabriel?”

“Howdy-ho, Castiel! You’re not on the road yet, are you?” Gabriel’s chipper voice came from the other end, and Castiel glanced at the clock just to make sure he had the time correct. He did. It was much too early for such energy.

“No. Was something wrong with the paperwork?” Castiel asked. Gabriel usually didn’t call after Castiel had finished up with a patient. In fact, he never called unless he had another assignment for Castiel.

“Squeaky clean as usual,” Gabriel told him. “Hey, you weren’t an accountant in a past life, were you? I feel like you’re too organized.” Castiel opened his mouth, unsure how to answer, but Gabriel kept speaking. “Any-who. How’re you liking Kansas?”

Castiel blinked, wondering if this were a social call. Gabriel always did like to chat, but the pleasantries were usually over with by that point of the call. “Um. It’s . . . temperate.”

“Rave review. Like it enough to stay there a little longer?”

He didn’t; not really. He supposed that would be true of anywhere, though. Everywhere he’d ever been had its positives and negatives, and he never felt as if the scales weighed any particular way. He didn’t even truly consider Boston his home. It was just the place where his legal residence was listed.

He didn’t answer, and instead waited for Gabriel to continue.

“Guess I’ll take that as a yes,” Gabriel said after a beat. “We got another application about a week ago from a potential candidate in Lawrence. Seems like she might be a good fit.”

“Another one?” From Castiel’s point of view, Lawrence wasn’t big enough to have multiple people considering assisted suicide at the same time. It wasn’t unheard of for him to get back-to-back cases, but never in the same place. He heard of one Departure Guide getting consecutive cases once, but that was in New York City. Suffice it to say, the population difference between New York and Lawrence was vast.

Gabriel chuckled lightly, and Castiel thought that might be a bit of an inappropriate action for such a topic. “Yeah, guess something must be in the water over there. But back to the candidate. Application says she has terminal lung cancer and it’s spreading quicker than a porn star’s legs. I figured, since you’re already there, you might wanna stop in and see what’s the haps. Unless . . . you know, you gotta get back home?”

Castiel didn’t _gotta_ do anything, he supposed. And Gabriel was right: he was already there. There was no point in sending another Guide out, especially to conduct a preliminary interview. There was no telling if this candidate would even be approved, anyway. And what was the alternative? Two days driving toward an empty apartment and TV dinners? Castiel would rather be working.

“No, I can handle it,” he told Gabriel.

“Sweet! Knew you would. Candidate’s name is Mary Winchester. I’ll email you the file now.” With a quick goodbye, the call ended, and barely a moment later, Castiel’s phone chimed with an email notification.

He unzipped his luggage again, and pulled out his tie.

///

Mary Winchester’s house was on a normal residential street close to the outskirts of the town. It was a standard two-floor home, the outside façade a muted green with a concrete walkway and stairs leading up to a white door. The front yard wasn’t very large, but flowerbeds brightened it up on either side of the house. There was a large tree with spiraling and sharp limbs, and Castiel couldn’t tell if it was mostly dead or if the leaves had already dropped from it for autumn.

There were two cars in the driveway: a modern Dodge muscle car that Castiel didn’t know the model name of and a classic car, its sleek black body meticulously clean and sparkling in the late morning sun.

Castiel pulled his own vehicle to the curbside in front of the house and put it into park. He picked up his briefcase from the passenger seat and rifled through it quickly, double-checking that he had all the paperwork he needed to conduct Mrs. Winchester’s interview. Once satisfied, he got out of the car and started up the walkway to the front of the house.

There was no knocker on the door and, when he pressed the bell, it didn’t seem to work. He rapped on the wood with his knuckles, noticing how pristine and fresh the paintjob appeared despite the apparent age of the house.

It didn’t take long for footsteps to sound inside, and the door swung open to a man in what appeared to be his early thirties. He was tall and broad, light brown hair the same color as the freckles scattered across his nose. He wore a t-shirt under an open plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal strong forearms. He struck Castiel immediately as very mid-western, but simultaneously a caliber above anyone else he’d ever laid eyes on. And, for a moment, Castiel forgot why he was there.

In the past, people had told Castiel that his face wasn’t very expressive. Perhaps it was the nature of his job. He’d trained himself to keep all emotion from bubbling up the surface, which perhaps began long before he started working at the Departure Network. But, presently, he felt as if he were balking. In reality, he was probably just staring ahead blankly and blinking more than necessary.

The man raised both his brows, his forehead scrunching in the motion. His eyes were a golden shade of green as the sun hit his face. “Can I help you?” he prompted, somehow making it sound sarcastic. His voice was deep and rough, as if it were coming out of the trees and grass and moss and everything that smelled ripe and earthy after the rain.

Castiel blinked again, forcing himself back into reality. “I—yes,” he stammered before regaining control of himself. He needed to be professional. “Is this the residence of Mary Winchester?”

The man’s expression became somewhat guarded at that. “Yeah? Who’s asking?”

“Excellent.” Now that Castiel had confirmation he was in the right place, he could continue. Mary Winchester’s file indicated her family knew of her application, so he could disclose his identity to this man. “My name is Castiel Novak. I’m a representative of the Departure Network, an organization affiliate with Death with Dignity. We received Mrs. Winchester’s application for—”

The door slammed an inch away from his nose.

Castiel sighed. This wasn’t the first time a candidate’s family member had less than subtly told him to fuck off.

He was about to knock again when he heard a shuffling coming from inside. Loud voices argued from within. He recognized one of them as the man he’d just spoken to, and there was another male voice that wasn’t as deep, and then _very_ deep as his tone rose in volume and anger. Castiel couldn’t make out any words until hurried footfalls sounded again and the second man roared, “What the hell’s your problem, Dean?”

The door opened again, this time to an even taller man with longer brown hair and an apologetic expression. He looked younger than the first man—Dean, Castiel assumed.

“Hi. Sorry about that. You’re here for Mom?” the man said.

“Yes,” Castiel told him. “I’m with the Departure Network. We received your mother’s application a few days ago, and I’m here to conduct a preliminary interview with her to determine whether this course of action is best suited to her situation.”

The man nodded slightly throughout, and when Castiel was finished, he kept staring for a half a second too long. He shook his head a little, belatedly realizing it was his turn to speak. “Uh, yeah—uh. Okay. She’s inside. Come on in.”

He stood to the side to permit Castiel admittance, and Castiel stepped into entrance hallway of the house. It opened up to a living room where a sports announcer was relaying the statistics of a game on a TV hidden by the wall, and a staircase led up to a landing with a small window before continuing on to the second level.

“I’m Sam,” the man said as he closed the door. He walked in front of Castiel, bringing him further into the house, and said, “They said somebody would be coming by. I guess we weren’t expecting anyone so soon. Are you from the area?” He seemed nervous, which Castiel was okay with. He preferred it to hostility, not that he couldn’t deal with that, either.

“No,” he answered simply, not offering any detail. He couldn’t disclose another patient’s departure, especially in the same town. For all he knew, Sam Winchester had been acquainted with Mildred Baker.

“Uh, okay. Can I get you anything to drink? Water? A coffee?”

Castiel already had a cup of coffee from the gas station on the car ride over. “No,” he said again, and remembered his manners. “Thank you.”

Sam nodded. “Okay. Well, Mom’s just in here.” He took Castiel into the living, where a faded cloth couch and an old armchair with a knitted throw over it were situated in front of a television set. Framed family pictures were on almost every flat surface—the mantel over the fireplace, the end table under the lamp, the shelving unit along the back wall. There were also strange decorations scattered around, and Castiel thought they must be some kind of religious artifacts. There were candles with sigils designed inside the dripping wax, pendants on braided strings, a statue of a cherub over the fireplace, and a Buddha on the windowsill. In a town that was predominantly Christian, Castiel couldn’t quite tell what religion the Winchesters practiced.

A blonde woman was on the couch, a blanket over her lap, her feet kicked up on the coffee table. A few pill containers were lined up next to a bowl with still a good amount of cold oatmeal and a spoon sticking out of it. There was a box of tissues on the cushion next to her, many of them crumbled up and stained red on her lap. She was pale, skin yellowing and taut around her thin face. She coughed into one of her tissues as Castiel and Sam entered the room.

Sam knelt down at her side and offered a kind smile. “Hey, Mom. This is Castiel Novak. He’s here about that application we sent in.”

Ms. Winchester looked around at him and, despite her frail appearance, her eyes were glinting and her smile was warm. “Of course. Hi, Castiel.”

Castiel nodded at her and offered a small, polite smile of his own. “Hello, Mrs. Winchester.”

“Oh, Mary, please.” Her voice was soft and she sounded young—at least, far too young to be dying.

“Mary,” Castiel corrected.

“Did Sam offer you anything? We can make you some coffee? Maybe some tea?” she asked, and Castiel shook his head.

“I’m fine, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions as part of your application process. It shouldn’t take long. You’re encouraged to ask me any questions of your own, and I’d be happy to answer to the best of my ability.” He wondered if he sounded rehearsed. This was the opening he’d been trained to say and, after a few years of doing this, it was kind of automatic to him.

“Oh—yeah, that’d be great,” Mary told him, seeming a little overwhelmed. Next to her, Sam stood up again and placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Excellent,” Castiel said. “Would you like to conduct the interview here or is there another room you wish to go to?”

Mary shook her head. “No, here’s fine. Please have a seat.”

Castiel looked behind him at the armchair. There wasn’t anywhere else to sit, and he never liked sitting so close to a candidate on their couch. He preferred to put some space between himself and them, so he sat in the chair, perching himself on the edge and placing his briefcase on the coffee table. He started pulling out Mary’s file.

In the meantime, Mary looked up at Sam. “Honey, where’s your brother?”

“Kitchen,” Sam whispered, as if it was some kind of secret.

“Could you go get him? I think we should all be here for this, in case he has any questions.”

Castiel felt Sam’s eyes land on him unsurely, but it was only for a brief time, and he said, “Yeah, sure. Be right back.”

He left the room as Castiel finished getting everything situated. He reached into his coat pocket and took out his fountain pen, placing it neatly on top of the folder. “We can begin whenever you’re ready.”

Mary kept smiling at him, and Castiel couldn’t tell if she was nervous or friendly. “They’ll be back in a sec.” As if to fill the silence so it wouldn’t be awkward, Mary fiddled with her hands and said, “So, Castiel. Are you from the area?”

“No.”

Sam reentered the room, and his brother reluctantly trailed a few paces behind him. While Sam opted to sit on the couch next to Mary, his hand coming onto her lap and blanketing both of hers for support and comfort, Dean stayed in the entrance, leaning his shoulder against the molding and crossing his arms over his chest. He glared at Castiel, looking ready to pounce if Castiel made the slightest move.

There was a bow to his legs, Castiel noticed, even though he tried not to. He focused on Mary and Sam and opened the file folder.

“Mary,” he began. “Firstly, I have to ask how you heard of the Departure Network.” It was a standard first question. As their business wasn’t technically legal in most states, Guides have been known to fall prey to sting operations where an undercover detective posed as a candidate. Checking his bases to ensure his own safety was top priority, according the guidebook.

“Well,” Mary said, furrowing her brow. “We have this family friend. She’s an herbalist, into alternative medicine. She told us about you guys a few months ago.”

“What is your friend’s name?”

“Missouri Mosley. She lives here in town.”

It was an odd enough name. Usually, if this were a trap, the name would be John or something innocuous. Castiel wrote down the name in his notes, because it never hurt to check.

“And what made you reach out to the Departure Network?”

Mary and Sam shared a look. Dean kept glaring.

“We just want to know what our options are,” she answered.

Castiel nodded. “Understand that this should be considered a last resort. According to your file, you have stage four lung cancer, which was diagnosed in April of 2015.”

“Yup. All those years of chain smoking, I guess.” She gave a wry kind of smile, and Sam chuckled lightly. Castiel realized she must have been joking. He carried on.

“And I understand the cancer has metastasized?”

Sam’s hand tightened around hers. She nodded. “Yes, to my liver.”

“And have you explored all other options available to you within the realm of medicine?”

Dean scoffed, a phlegmy, ugly sound. Castiel decided to get to his troubles later. First, he had to focus on Mary.

Again, she nodded. “Yes. I did radiation for a while, and it helped, but then it just came back. And, well, I’ve been going to Missouri, too, of course.”

“Have you tried chemotherapy?”

Mary bit down on her lips, visibly considering whether or not she should say anything, but she didn’t need to. Castiel knew the answer. “No.”

Castiel wrote it down, and that must have made Mary nervous because she hurried to say, “It’s just . . . I didn’t wanna lose my hair. I know it sounds vain, but . . . And, you know. It weakens you. I didn’t want to get sicker than I am already.”

He understood. He’d met many people who forewent chemotherapy for similar reasons. It was Mary’s decision, and it would have little bearing on her application. “That’s perfectly acceptable.”

From the entrance, Dean scoffed again. “Oh, it is, is it?”

“Dean—” Sam warned.

Mary half-turned around to look at him. “Sweetie, come on. There’s no harm in talking to him, right? We decided that together.”

“No, _you_ decided it,” Dean argued, tone clipped. “I decided, over my dead body.”

“Dean, please,” Mary said patiently. Dean’s jaw tensed, but he leaned back on the wall and kept whatever thoughts he had to himself. Mary told Castiel, “Please, continue.”

Castiel thought it would be best to do just that. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions now, and I need verbal responses. Do you understand?”

Mary nodded, and then remembered, “Oh—yes. I understand.”

Castiel picked up his notes and turned to the first page, where his questions were listed out. He didn’t really need them anymore, but he liked to go through them just so he knew he wasn’t missing anything.

“Are you entering this process of your own free will?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand that, if completed, your departure is permanent and irreversible?”

“Yes.”

“Are you of sound mind to make your own decisions?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware that you can opt out at any time during the process?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware that, while I will guide you in obtaining the materials needed for your departure, I, nor anyone else, will be able to initiate or aid you in your departure?”

“I am.”

“Do you have a living will?”

Mary shook her head. “No.”

Castiel nodded. Many people didn’t. “That’s fine, but you’ll need to file one. It’s necessary in case there comes a time during the preparation process or as a result of the departure that you’re unable to voice your decision. If you wish, I can help you with that for an additional fee. Do you have a lawyer you would like to use for this?”

“Sam’s a lawyer,” Mary said, looking proudly on at her son. “He can help.”

Sam blinked, a little thrown off and uneasy. “Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure, Mom.”

“Whatever you’re all comfortable with,” Castiel told them, trying to give Sam an out. But that was their personal business, and he wouldn’t intrude. However, he couldn’t help but to voice one reservation: “But you do understand that, if Sam files your living will, he can’t be executor? You’ll need to choose someone else to handle it.”

His eyes flashed briefly upward, behind Mary and Sam, to catch Dean’s gaze in the doorway. Dean was still looking at him sourly.

“It’s okay,” Mary said, and Castiel sincerely hoped she had another child or a spouse somewhere, because he doubted Dean would be up to the task of executing his mother’s wishes.

Castiel put his notes down and closed the file folder. “That will be all for the day. I’ll send this information into my superiors. But I will need a copy of your medical records in order to complete the application process. Should you be approved, we can begin making arrangements.”

“Okay. We can get you a copy of those tomorrow,” Sam said.

“Then, unless you have any questions for me, I’ll be going,” Castiel said. He always hated this part of the interview. He’d heard almost every question that could possibly be asked over the years with little variation, but he was still uncomfortable answering them. It was one thing to stick to a script; it was another thing to look a person in the eyes and tell them how exactly they were going to die.

Mary seemed to be mustering his thoughts, but Sam spoke first. “How long does it usually take? You know, after the application is approved.”

“Should she be approved, the preparation process normally takes four to six weeks.”

“And how—” Mary asked, stopping and starting again. “How does it work? The—well, how do I do it?”

Castiel told himself it was a normal question. He’d answered it hundreds of times. He recited, “The patient orders a plastic hood and a tank of nitrogen gas. Once the hood is placed over the patient’s head and the gas is turned on, the patient becomes unconscious with thirty to sixty seconds. In twenty to thirty minutes, the patient passes away. It’s painless and completely humane.”

“Oh,” Mary said, seeming a little relieved. “Well, that doesn’t sound so—”

“Humane?” Dean barked, eyes flashing with anger. He lifted himself up from the wall and walked to the back of the couch, teeth bared and finger pointing accusingly at Castiel. “You wanna gas her? What is this, Nazi Germany?”

“Dean, come on,” Sam tried.

“It’s okay,” Castiel assured him. He was used to this. “My presence sometimes tends to arise feelings of aggression in patients’ loved ones.” He looked up at Dean, telling himself to remain calm. Dean looked about ready to strangle him. “Mr. Winchester, I understand this is an uncertain time, and it’s normal to experience fear. I’d be happy to provide all of you with literature outlining the departure method, and I can coach you through the acceptance process so you’re better equipped to support your mother in her decision.”

Dean laughed, but it was a humorless thing. “I don’t need a shrink, pal. And I don’t need a brochure. You do realize that what you’re doing is _illegal_ , right?”

Castiel looked at him evenly. “I am aware of the laws of the State of Kansas, Mr. Winchester.”

“Then what’s stopping me from calling the cops right now?”

Mary and Sam both let out sounds of protest, but it wouldn’t do any good. Castiel couldn’t risk a run-in with the law. If a loved one stated their intent to call the police, Castiel was instructed to leave immediately and report it to his superiors.

He stood up calmly. “Perhaps I should go.”

“Yeah, _perhaps_ you should—” Dean said, and at the same time Sam held up his palm and beseeched, “No. Castiel—he won’t. He won’t call the cops.”

“I’m required to take all threats of contacting the authorities seriously,” Castiel told him, almost apologetically. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to help Mary.

“He—he won’t call them. I promise,” Sam said sternly, shooting his brother a glare before returning his gaze to Castiel. His eyes grew large and imploring. “Please.”

Castiel didn’t know how to say no to him. Maybe it wasn’t in his best interest, but he sat back down. Mary and Sam seemed to relax, but Dean was still primed for attack.

“Are there any other questions?” Castiel asked, eager to get back on track.

Mary and Sam were both silent, thinking but not coming up with anything. It was Dean who said, “Yeah, I got one.” Everyone looked at him, but Dean’s eyes were fixed solely on Castiel’s. He looked appalled, disgusted even. “What makes a person wanna do something like this? Huh? To go around and watch people die? What the hell would make you want that as a job?”

Castiel held his stare, but he felt his stomach roil at the question. No one had ever asked him that before.

And he couldn’t tell Dean the answer. Mary and Sam both looked at him expectantly, too, but Castiel couldn’t say. It was personal, and it was better to remain impersonal.

He dropped his eyes to his shoes. “I have my reasons.”

Dean stayed silent for a second, and then let out a sound and shook his head. “Yeah, great answer.”

Castiel assumed they were done, and he was thankful for that. He was ready to get out of that house. He needed to get away from Dean, and of the strange way he made Castiel feel—like he wanted Dean both to keep his distance and to come closer.

He stood up again and collected his things. “Thank you for your time,” he said.

“Thank _you_ ,” Mary answered. “And we’ll get you those medical records.”

Castiel nodded, and couldn’t help but to look again at Dean. Dean looked back like it was a challenge, and then scoffed once more and turned away. He disappeared back toward the kitchen.

Sam walked Castiel to the door, thanking him again. Once outside, Castiel found it much easier to breathe. Still, every time he blinked, he saw Dean’s green eyes boring into him.

He supposed that was the issue with dealing with a new patient and their families. Castiel never truly knew what he was in for.

///

The next day, Castiel drove back to the Winchesters’ house to collect the medical records from Mary. He’d need to submit them by the end of the day, along with his daily report for his superiors. The report was required of every Departure Guide, just so the main office could ensure everything was up to code. Castiel’s were typically a sentence or two long, outlining what progress had been made with the patient and their family. It was a quick email to Gabriel. The records, however, would need to be faxed.

Unfortunately, when he pulled up next to the Winchester house, there was only one car in the driveway: the classic car that must have belonged to Dean, seeing as the hood was open and he was currently bent over the grill working on the engine. Castiel paused for a moment, having to swallow hard at the sight of Dean’s ass in his old, oil stained jeans. It was difficult to look away, because he kept moving it tantalizingly as he busied himself with the car.

Castiel bit on his lower lip, telling himself that this was inappropriate. He could not be attracted to a candidate’s loved one, and he certainly couldn’t get distracted by their ass. Besides, even if he could allow himself to do such a thing, Dean was less than thrilled with his presence. Castiel didn’t have a chance in hell.

Collecting himself, he grabbed his briefcase and got out of the car. With any luck, Mary and Sam would be inside the house. But there was no way he could slip past Dean to knock on the door, so he approached the driveway, pointedly keeping his eyes away from Dean’s posterior.

“Mr. Winchester,” he called. Dean’s elbow was working back and forth as he tightened something with a lug wrench. He glanced up, his jaw tensing and shoulders sagging instantly when he saw Castiel.

“Great,” Castiel thought he heard Dean mutter as he got closer to the car.

Dean straightened out. Despite the chill in the fall air, he was in only a t-shirt. A ring of perspiration was around the neckline and the armpits. The shirt had a hole toward the bottom of it and it was covered in grease stains. It hung off Dean’s body limply, stretching across his chest and showing off the outline of his arms. And Castiel tried very hard not to notice any of it.

Dean’s eyes gave him the once over, and he probably didn’t mean it to be anywhere near as seductive as it seemed. “What do you want?” he asked rudely, and that was good. Castiel could remind himself that Dean was boorish, and therefore he shouldn’t harbor any attraction toward him.

Castiel would stick to business, then. “I’m here to pick up your mother’s medical records. Sam called me this morning asking me to come by around this time. Are either of them here?”

Dean shook his head. “No, they’re not back from Mom’s appointment yet.”

Perfect. Castiel very much didn’t want to stand there having to make small talk with Dean. “Do you know when they will be? I could come back at another time, if that’s more convenient.”

“I dunno,” Dean said. He lifted up the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead with the fabric. Right in front of Castiel. Castiel saw a glimpse of Dean’s freckled torso, and the small, adorable pouch of his stomach. He saw his belly button. “Soon?”

Castiel blinked, desperately trying to forget what he’d seen. He turned his face down and to the side, and decided to admire the car instead. “This is a very nice car.”

Dean sighed loudly, like the last thing he wanted to do was talk about absolutely anything with Castiel. It may have been the one thing they had in common.

“Yeah, well, she better be. I rebuilt her my own damn self,” Dean said shortly. He took the wrench in his hand and tossed it into his toolkit. He began packing it up.

Castiel squinted at him. He hadn’t expected such a reaction from Dean. He was clearly passionate about his car; usually, people reacted more positively when such things were complimented. Maybe it was Castiel himself who was setting Dean on edge. “Mr. Winchester, if you’d rather I wait in my vehicle for your mother and brother to return, I’d be happy to do that.”

Dean closed his tool kit and stood up, again looking Castiel up and down. Then, his eyes flashed to Castiel’s car on the curb. It was an old, champagne-colored jalopy that he’d purchased at a snake oil dealership in Boston. It was nothing like Dean’s car.

Dean shook his head, like he couldn’t believe what he was about to do. He said, “Look, just come inside, alright? They’ll be back any minute.”

Apparently, some of his mother’s hospitality had been passed down to him. If only a speck of it.

Dean started for the front door, and Castiel walked behind him. He found himself distracted again with the way Dean moved. His gait was confident, but there was a certain coiled tension he carried himself with. Beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, Castiel watched the muscles of his back shift and roll.

Was there a single flaw to this man’s body?

Castiel tried to remind himself of Dean’s personality. And why he was there. This had never happened before. He’d never become so bothered by a patient’s family member. But, God help him, all he wanted to do was put his hands on Dean and trace his fingers along every part of him.

When they got inside, Dean set his toolbox down in the entrance hall and led Castiel to the kitchen. “Sit down,” he said once they were there, and it was more of an order than a polite suggestion. Castiel did as he was told, taking a seat at the breakfast table.

Dean went into the fridge and pulled out a can of beer, despite the fact that it was barely noon. He closed the fridge door a tad too aggressively and turned around, putting his back against the edge of the counter and fixing Castiel with another hard stare.

Castiel looked down at his hands folded on the table in front of him. He wanted to ask Dean more about his car—not because he had any interest in cars, but because he had an interest in Dean. He wanted to ask him if he fixed cars for a living, and what made him choose that profession. He wanted to ask him if he’d gone to college, and what he studied there. Hell, he wanted to ask Dean what his favorite color was.

But it was best not to. He didn’t need to know Dean on a personal level. The policy of keeping his distance from the people in his charge was for his own good; and, beyond that, it was better for him regardless of his job. If he didn’t have anyone, that meant he didn’t have anyone to lose.

In the end, it was Dean who asked a question. He knocked back a sip of his beer and continued to glower at Castiel as though he didn’t trust him. But there was something else in his eyes, too. A kind of curiosity. “You never answered my question, you know? From yesterday.”

Dean’s voice was thick from his drink and he took another sip as soon as he was finished speaking so that the tin can muffled the last of his words. He didn’t offer Castiel a drink. Perhaps his hospitality only went so far.

“What question would that be?” Castiel asked, knowing exactly what Dean was referring to.

“About what made you choose this job.”

Castiel met his stare, neither of them looking away for a long time. Carefully, he said, “My reasons are personal, Mr. Winchester. But, what it comes down to is this: I want to help people.”

Dean’s mouth twisted. “You call this helping? Because I don’t. I’d call you a serial killer.”

Castiel didn’t know why that stung. Name-calling wasn’t uncommon in his line of work. But serial killer? That was a new one.

“I understand how you would see it that way,” he said, even though he didn’t understand it. “But my aim here isn’t to talk anyone into dying. My aim is to give them the tools they need to make their own choices. People shouldn’t have to suffer needlessly. They should be given the dignity to pick their own fate.”

Dean shook his head, practically snarling. “You mean throw in the towel? Roll over and die without a fight?”

Castiel didn’t know why it mattered, but he wanted to make Dean understand. Maybe it was for the sake of his mother, but maybe it was something else. He wanted Dean to understand _him_. “This is fighting, in a way.”

“Looks a lot like giving up to me.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say to that. He disagreed, of course, but he didn’t know how to make Dean understand. But he never got the chance to figure it out, because the front door opened, and Sam called out, “Dean?”

Dean put his beer can in the sink, his eyes finally leaving Castiel’s in the process, and picked himself up off the counter. He disappeared into the hall, and there was low chatter from the doorway. Castiel waited patiently until Mary and her sons entered the kitchen. Sam had his arm wrapped around Mary’s back, and her hand was in his for physical support as he slowly guided her into the room. She had a tube in her nose that was connected to a portable oxygen tank. Dean followed behind them, carrying the tank for his mother. The strap of a care bag was hanging from his shoulder.

“Castiel. Welcome back,” Mary said as she entered the room, offering him a warm expression.

“Hi, Castiel. Sorry we’re late,” Sam added.

“It’s no problem. I haven’t been here long,” Castiel assured them as Sam guided Mary into one of the chairs at the table across from him. Dean placed the bag and tank beside her on the floor and crouched down to be level with her.

“Mom, you need anything? You hungry?” he asked, suddenly attentive. The lines of his expression softened, and his eyes flittered about her face as if checking for any harm. He was a totally different person than the man Castiel had been speaking to moments ago.

“No, I’m fine,” Mary told him.

“You sure? You want some water or anything? I think we got some of that meatloaf from last night in the fridge.”

Mary smiled gently at him and placed her hand on his forearm. “Sweetie, I’m okay. Just a little tired.”

Dean nodded and lingered for a moment longer before picking himself up from the floor. He hovered close in case Mary needed him.

Meanwhile, Sam picked up the care bag and rifled through the inside. He produced a file folder and placed it on the table before Castiel. “Those are the records. I think it’s everything you’ll need.”

Castiel slid the folder closer, hearing it whoosh as it glided across the plastic floral tablecloth. He opened it and carded through the papers, giving them the once over. Satisfied, he stood up and said, “Everything appears to be in order. I can send these in today, and they’ll be processed along with the rest of your application within seventy-two hours.”

He noticed Dean put his hand on Mary’s shoulder protectively. She reached up and placed her palm on top of it.

“Thanks,” Sam said.

Castiel looked back at Mary. “How are you feeling today?” It wasn’t uncommon for candidates to have second thoughts on the day following the interview, especially after a scheduled doctor’s appointment. Depending on what happened at the hospital, some candidates were given renewed hope.

“I haven’t changed my mind, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said.

He nodded, glad she’d understood his meaning.

He was about to make his exit when Mary said, quite abruptly, “Castiel, why don’t you stay for lunch? We could whip up some sandwiches.”

It took Castiel off his guard. This hadn’t been the first time he’d been invited to share a meal with a patient, but this was the first time he actually wanted to. “I—” He looked at Mary, and then Sam’s polite face, and then to Dean. Dean didn’t seem to want him to stay very much at all.

He reminded himself why he shouldn’t.

“I should go send these in,” he said, regarding the file folder. “Perhaps another time,” he added, half meaning it.

Mary took it in stride. In fact, she almost seemed relieved. “Probably for the best. I’m _exhausted_.” She laughed lyrically. Castiel imagined the house filled with such a sound during happier times. “Those doctor visits really take it out of me these days.”

“C’mon, Mom, let’s get you upstairs to bed,” Dean offered. Mary gratefully accepted, and he helped her to her feet. He picked up the oxygen tank and they shuffled out of the kitchen. Before they left, Dean glanced over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Castiel and holding them until the wall obstructed their view of each other.

Castiel shook himself out of it. He stood up and put the medical records in his briefcase.

Sam let out a heavy sigh and sat down in the chair his mother had been in. “Sorry about him,” he said, and he could only be talking about Dean.

Castiel put the strap of his bag over his head. “No need. Everyone processes the situation in their own time. It isn’t easy to grapple with, much less accept.”

Sam blew out his cheeks. “Yeah, you’re telling me.” He upturned his palms. “It’s just—Dean’s not a bad guy. I mean, you’ll probably start to like him if you stick around.”

Castiel didn’t say anything one way or another.

Sam sat back, running his hand through his hair. “He just cares. We both do. But—”

“You have different ways of showing it,” Castiel supplied.

Sam’s eyes snapped to him, surprised, and then grateful. “Yeah, something like that,” he said with a kind of laugh. He nodded then, as if convincing himself of something. “He’ll come around. If this is really what Mom wants, he’ll back her.”

Castiel sincerely hoped that was true.

There was a pause between them, and then Sam stood up from his chair. “Anyway, I don’t wanna keep you. Thanks again for swinging by.” He placed one hand in the back pocket of his jeans, and held the other out to Castiel.

Castiel shook it and said, “Of course. I’ll be in touch.”

He made his way out of the house, doing his best not to look at the photographs hanging on the wall in the hallway as he passed them. He couldn’t help it. His eyes flickered to an old elementary school portrait of Dean, young and missing a front tooth as he smiled goofily at the camera.

Despite himself, and despite Dean’s best efforts, Castiel was already starting to like him.


	2. Chapter 2

Mary's application was approved three days later, and the news went over somberly when Castiel delivered it. Mary had looked down at her lap and put on a brave face. Sam nodded, tightening his jaw to prevent the tears glistening in his eyes from falling. Dean had left the room, and then the house altogether.

Such news always went down uneasily, and there was no balm to wash it away. Castiel would have been worried if the family had broken out the party favors. He'd been ready for anything: grim silence, tears, fits of anger and violence. Or, he thought he'd been ready. But when he heard the front door slam on Dean's way out, he'd flinched. He wasn't used to flinching.

The next week and a half was dedicated to filing Mary's living will with the state. Sam had drafted up the document and walked her through the options. Castiel had done this enough times to offer his own guidance, but Sam knew her better and was therefore more equipped at advising his mother. Most of the sessions were at the Winchesters' house, and Dean was never there for them. He was working, Mary said, and Castiel tried not to think about his absence. He would be a looming, dark presence in the background, constantly hovering over Castiel's shoulder and questioning his every move, frequently aloud. Castiel thought he'd been overly aware of Dean's presence while he was there, and this would be a reprieve; however, he was even more aware of the empty space Dean left behind.

A few times, on her better days that were increasingly few and far between, Mary insisted they go to Sam's office for the appointment. Sam usually protested, saying it was no trouble for him to go back and forth to the house, and Castiel mostly agreed. Straining herself in such a way was unnecessary. But it seemed Dean had inherited his hardheadedness from his mother. Perhaps she just wanted to prove to herself that she could do it.

On those occasions, Castiel found himself taking on the task of picking Mary up from the house and driving her back and forth to Sam's office. He'd been uneasy about it at first, and all it entailed. He carried her oxygen tank and care bag for her. She leaned on him as he helped her walk. They conversed while driving. She told him about the trip she took to Arizona with her parents when she was little, about how she met her husband, about Sam and Dean—about Sam's recent graduation from Stanford Law, about the long distance relationship he had with a girl named Jessica "who he'll probably marry once he can move back to California." She told him about Dean's job fixing cars, and his love of road trips, and her wish for him to find someone nice to settle down with because "he'd make a great husband and an even better father. He helped out a lot with Sam, you know? We didn't even have to ask."

And Castiel tried to pretend he wasn't hanging onto every single word.

And, eventually, Castiel forgot that he wasn't supposed to be doing this. He forgot he was getting too involved. He forgot that he wasn't supposed to hold any fondness toward the people in his care.

Because, in a few weeks, she'd be dead. Sam and Dean would move on with their lives. And Castiel would return to Boston.

On the evening Mary signed her living will, Castiel drove her back to her house while Sam stayed behind to get the document notarized. As he'd feared, she named Dean the executor—and it wasn't Castiel's business. It truly wasn't. He should stay out of it, because it was unlikely Mary would even need the will. The chances of the departure processes failing were slim and he didn't anticipate Mary becoming comatose any time soon, so there was a good chance Dean wouldn't have to decide anything.

But it was always possible.

"Mary," he said, keeping his eyes ahead on the road. Normally, she was chatty, but she was quiet and introspective on the ride home, and Castiel knew it was more than exhaustion keeping her that way.

She turned toward him, giving her attention.

He sighed. This wasn't his place. "You're certain that Dean is the right choice?"

She seemed to be expecting the question, because a small smile pulled on the corners of her lips, and her shoulders sagged. She exhaled, and it sounded more like a wheeze than a sigh. "I know. I'm awful for putting even more pressure on him," she said remorsefully.

Castiel pulled his brows together and looked at her briefly before returning his eyes front. It was dusk, and the orange and purples of the sunset bruised the air along the road. "No, I mean . . . Are you certain he'll be capable of carrying out your wishes should the need arise?"

Mary didn't seem to understand, as if the reservation was completely unfounded. "What do you mean?"

"He's fought you every step of the way," Castiel said, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. Now that he was airing his grievances, he couldn't seem to stop. "He's acted rashly, bitterly, disrespectfully, some might even say self-serving." Castiel would say that. He would call Dean's actions self-serving. "His views don't align with your decision, and he seems completely unwilling and incapable to support your choices. And he—" he pressed his lips together. He knew what he wanted to say was crossing the line he'd drawn for himself. He wanted to say, _he doesn't like me very much_. He paused and rephrased, "Whatever I suggest, he seems to do the exact opposite."

Mary was laughing. It took a moment for Castiel to realize that. In truth, it sounded more like her oxygen tank hissing. It wasn't until he heard her cough did he realize. Why was she laughing?

"What?" he asked, suddenly self-conscious. He tilted his head to the side.

"He's rough around the edges. He gets that from his father—and me," she said when she was done coughing. "He's not an easy person to like. But you do, don't you?"

Castiel locked up and stared blankly ahead. This conversation was a mistake. Mary was a little too good at reading people, he discovered, when he knew for certain that he wasn't exactly what one would call an open book.

Mary looked back out the window. "We lost their father eleven years ago," she said, seemingly out of the blue. Her hand lifted, fingers playing with the ring dangling from her necklace. Castiel had wondered what happened to the man in the photographs scattered about the Winchester home. He made it a point not to ask, but Mary was offering the information. It was okay if she gave it freely.

"It was a car crash. He didn't die right away." She spoke slowly, her sweet face in the window's reflection long and downcast. "He was in a coma for a few weeks in the hospital, hooked up to machines. We . . . We kept hoping . . . But none of us really knew what to do. None of us wanted to make the decision, you know?" She shrugged. "So we just—didn't. And then, one day, he slipped away."

She was blinking a little too rapidly now. She cleared her throat and went on, "I don't wanna be like that. And I want my boys to know what to do if I ever am. And Dean . . . he knows that. He blamed himself for what happened to his dad. He shouldn't have to feel guilty for me, too. He probably still will, but at least he knows it's what I want. Trust me, he may seem like he's against all this, but, in the end, I know he'll do the right thing." She paused, and then, "He always does."

Castiel remained silent. He didn't know what to say, but not because he disagreed. He hadn't seen any of these traits in Dean so far, but Sam had said something similar weeks ago. The ones who knew Dean best trusted him, relied on him. They believed in him. That was significant, especially coming from genuine people like Mary and Sam. They talked about Dean as if he were something special, remarkable even.

"I understand," Castiel said, even though he didn't. He wished he shared their confidence in Dean.

He turned onto the Winchesters' street, and seconds later he was pulling up in front of their house. The large tree in the front of the yard had lost even more leaves, and Castiel didn't know if they'd ever grow back. He hoped so.

He helped Mary out of the car and up the walkway toward the house. Her weight against him was warm and comforting as he supported her every step. When a chilled gust of wind blew, he pulled her coat closer around her to protect her from the cold.

“You know, Castiel, you’ve been helping me out for weeks and you still haven’t joined us for dinner,” Mary said when they were almost to the stoop. Castiel tensed a little, knowing what was coming next. An invitation. Worst of all, he wanted to take her up on the offer. “You really should. How about now? I mean, if you don’t have any plans already.” She turned to him, smiling. “Dean’s making a roast.”

Castiel frowned, more taken aback than anything. “Dean cooks?”

She snorted, and it made her cough slightly. “He better. I’m useless in the kitchen, and Sam can hardly heat up soup. Don’t tell him I said that.”

He found the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “Your secret’s save with me.”

“So, what do you say?” she asked, not dropping the subject. But it didn’t seem like he would have a choice either way because she popped her brows and added sternly, “And I won’t take no for an answer.”

He sighed, knowing he should protest. It shouldn’t have been this easy for her to convince him. He squinted over at the front door, letting out an exhale. A home cooked meal did sound nice. And if Dean was cooking it . . .

He turned back to her and nodded, causing her face to erupt into a victorious grin. She hooked her elbow back into his and patted his forearm with her gloved hand. “Knew I’d wear you down eventually.”

As soon as they were through the door, the sweet smell of cooking meat arrested Castiel’s senses. His mouth instantly started to water, and his stomach felt hollow. He helped Mary out of her outerwear and set her care bag on the bottom step of the staircase. He kept holding her oxygen tank as they walked together toward the kitchen.

Dean was there, stirring something in a pot on the stove. There was a plaid oven mitt on his left hand. He glanced over his shoulder as they entered, his eyes immediately landing to Castiel. They lingered for a moment before flickering to Mary, and his expression both softened and filled with protectiveness.

“Hey, Mom. How’d it go?” he said, leaving the wooden spoon sticking upright in whatever was in the pot as he came over to her, wiping his hand on his jeans.

“Hi, sweetie.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek when he leaned down for it. “Good. I signed it.”

Castiel wanted to mention that Dean was named executor, but he figured Dean already knew. He wondered how he felt about it.

Dean looked at Castiel again and didn’t say anything before taking the oxygen tank from him and helping Mary to the table. “Where’s Sam?”

“Right behind us,” Mary said. “He should be home in a minute.”

“Great. Well, dinner’s almost ready.”

Mary nodded. “I invited Castiel to join us, so we’ll have to set another plate. I’m guessing you made enough.” Her gaze went to Castiel. “Dean usually cooks enough for an army.”

Dean tensed up a little, and he stayed unmoving for half a second too long. But he said, “Uh, yeah. Okay, I guess.”

Castiel stepped a little further into the kitchen, flapping his arms out at his sides and hearing them smack back down against his trench coat. “Let me know if I can make myself useful.”

Dean barely glanced at him as he went back over to the pot of what Castiel assumed were mashed potatoes. “You can set the table. Plates are in that cabinet.”

Castiel got to work.

Five minutes later, after Dean had plated the roast and said it needed time to “settle,” Sam came home, and seemed much happier than his brother that Castiel was joining them for dinner. They sat down for their meal, Dean cutting the roast as Sam scooped a large helping of mashed potatoes onto his plate and then reached over the table to add some to Mary’s. When the bowl was passed to Castiel, he plated enough to ensure Dean wouldn’t be offended. He still felt strange sitting down to eat with them, like he was intruding. He didn’t know how much food he should eat, even though it smelled delicious.

The Winchesters dove right into eating, not saying grace or holding a moment of silence first. It was a little odd, considering the religious sigils they had all over their house. There was even a statue of the Virgin Mary next to a four-armed Hindu god that Castiel didn’t know the name of over the stove.

But Castiel hadn’t prayed in years, since he moved out of his parents’ house, so he wasn’t complaining.

He cut off a piece of his meat and bit into it. It was even more delicious than it smelled, and he was sure that wasn’t just because he’d only eaten diner food for the past two months. He glanced up at Dean across the table from him, but Dean didn’t look back. He was regarding Mary instead.

“Oh, Mom, you’ll never guess who came into the garage today,” he said at once, his mouth still a little filled with food. He’d spooned a divot into the top of his mashed potatoes to catch the gravy they were drowning in.

Next to Castiel, Mary asked, “Who?” Now that she wasn’t moving, she’d turned her oxygen tank off and the clear plastic cord no longer hindered her.

“Beth Whitshire.”

Mary’s mouth opened in shock. “Beth? Really? I haven’t seen her since—God, you boys were kids. How is she?”

Dean shrugged. “Same old. She says hi.”

“And how’s her son? Charlie, wasn’t it?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah. She said he’d gone out to LA to make it as a big time director.”

Sam groaned loudly, practically tossing his head back. “Yeah, good luck,” he said, sounding sarcastic.

“What’s wrong with Charlie Whitshire? Didn’t you go to high school with him?” Mary asked.

“He was a junior when I was a freshman,” Sam told her. “And he’s a shitty director. Remember that time he was AD during the school play I was in?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean said, his voice kicking up an octave as he recalled the memory. There was a sly grin on his features, and Castiel realized that was the very first time he’d seen Dean smile. “What play was that again?” He snapped and pointed at Sam. “ _Our Town_. Man, Charlie was the AD? I didn’t know that was him. You hated that guy.”

“Yeah, ‘cause he kept putting me in the back of every scene!”

“Maybe ‘cause you’re _Gigantor_ ,” Dean said, stretching his arm high above his head and leveling his hand.

Castiel watched on, feeling mostly invisible, but he didn’t mind. He enjoyed listening to the Winchesters’ banter.

Mary snorted out a laugh, her mouth closed as she did it. “I remember that,” she said, humor in her voice. “Your father kept trying to get a recording of you but all he could get was the top of your head. He was so mad.” She twirled her fork around idly in her mashed potatoes. “He finally made Dean climb up onto one of the beams in the auditorium to get a clear view.”

“Which got me detention for a week,” Dean supplied.

“Yeah, but we also got a shot of Sam in period dress to show his future wife some day, so I call that a fair trade.”

“Good point.”

All three of them laughed, but Castiel’s focus was on Dean. His expression was genuine, free. His eyes seemed to light up from the inside out, and he had one of those infectious grins that looked exactly like his mother’s. When he smiled, lines crinkled around his eyes. He was beautiful.

When the laughter died down, there was a pause in conversation. Mary took a bite of her food and hummed, as if getting out the last of her laughter. She put her fingers in front of her face to hide her chewing as she said, “So, Castiel. You mentioned you weren’t from around here. Where do you live?”

Castiel didn’t know if he should tell them. But they were all looking at him, expecting an answer, and he didn’t want to let them down now that he was pulled back into the conversation. He wanted to be a part of it. He supposed telling them where he was from wasn’t too personal. After all, everyone was from somewhere.

“Boston,” he answered.

Mary lit up, and Sam exclaimed an unintelligible noise.

“Mm. We took Sam there to look at schools. Where’d we look, honey? Harvard and—there was another one.”

Sam shook his head, trying to remember. “God, I dunno. It was like a million years ago.”

“Tufts,” Dean supplied.

“Right! That was it,” Mary said. “Are you from there originally?”

Dean’s eyes were on Castiel. He could feel them heavily on him, and he tried not to return the look. He wiped his mouth with his napkin self-consciously nonetheless. “Yes, I grew up there. I lived with my parents about twenty minutes outside of the city.”

“Any siblings?” she asked.

That was a loaded question. He supposed, technically, he did; and, technically, he didn’t.

He ended up saying, “A younger sister.” He paused. It had been a long time since he’d spoken her name. “Anna.”

He felt Dean’s eyes turn curious as he leaned back in his seat and rested his arm on the back of Mary’s chair.

Mary said, “Well, it’s nice you decided to stay so close to your parents.”

He nodded, offering a tight expression. He didn’t say that his parents had split and one of them retired to South Carolina while the other could usually be found on the golf courses of Florida. He also didn’t mention that he hadn’t spoken two words to either of them in going on eight years.

“Did you go to school in Boston, too?”

He didn’t hesitate in answering that time. “Yes, I studied at Boston University.”

“Yeah? What kind of major do you have to be to get into your kind of work?” Sam asked, his nose skewing up as he considered it.

“There really isn’t a particular major. I actually studied political science. I wanted to work in government, but . . .” This was the part that was too personal. He couldn’t say it, even if his job allowed it. “My priorities shifted,” he finished vaguely.

Sam nodded, seeming to understand, even if he didn’t know the events that led up to Castiel’s sudden life-altering decision. But he didn’t ask, and Castiel was grateful.

Castiel looked down at his plate and chuckled a little. It was an inside joke he had with himself. “I suppose you can say I went from wanting to work for the law to becoming a criminal.”

Dean leaned his elbows on the table. “Yeah, you’re a regular John Wayne.”

Castiel’s eyes connected with him. “I prefer Clint Eastwood.”

That earned him a smile. Dean actually smiled at him, and he laughed. It was a small laugh, but it filled Castiel up to the brim. To be on the receiving end of the shining light that was Dean’s happiness was almost too much. Everything else froze in time and fell away. He felt himself smile back, shy and spellbound.

It felt like it went on for hours, but in truth it was much too fleeting. The conversation went on from there, but Castiel couldn’t quite recover throughout the rest of the meal.

After dinner, Mary bid them all goodnight and Sam took her upstairs to get her settled for bed. Castiel watched them go until they were out of sight, and continued to stare after them for a long time, lost in thought. This was the first, and likely the only, dinner he'd shared with the Winchesters, but it didn't feel that way. He felt as though they'd done this hundreds of times. It was as soothing and familiar as dinner with his parents and Anna had once been.

It took him a moment to realize Dean was clearing off the table. When he did, Castiel turned to him, watching him move around the kitchen. He cut up the rest of the roast and placed it in a container along with the onions. He took another one out for the mashed potatoes, and stacked them one of top of each other in the crowded fridge. He put the dishes in the sink and ran the water, getting to work. His back was turned to Castiel most of the time, and when it wasn't, he didn't look up. He was generally ignoring Castiel's presence, but it didn't feel rude or awkward. It felt comfortable in a way. Castiel wondered if Dean felt the same. He was almost positive Dean knew he was being watched, but he didn't say anything about it and Castiel didn't look away.

He knew he should leave. Dinner was over, and the Winchesters no doubt wanted to settle in for the night. He wondered what they did when they were alone, in the uneventful moments of domestic life. Did they watch movies together? Did they talk and laugh and share memories? Or did they go to their own separate corners for alone time?

Castiel had certainly had enough alone time to last his entire life. He'd have some more if he left, to return to his motel room that suddenly felt a little too grim and uninviting.

He picked himself up from the table and moved to the sink, hovering near Dean's shoulder. He heard Dean's breath hitch slightly, and it suddenly made him unsure. Hesitantly, he asked, "Can I help?"

Dean only half-glanced over his shoulder. "Sure," he said gruffly, like he couldn't care less either way. "You can dry."

Castiel nodded dutifully and glanced around for a dishcloth. There was one hanging off the bar on the oven, so he picked it up and brought it back over. Dean handed him a plate, and Castiel offered him a small smile as he took it. He hoped, foolishly, that Dean would smile back, like he did over the dinner table. He couldn't stop picturing it, the twinkle in Dean's eyes and the rush of warmth it had sent through Castiel. He wanted to make Dean smile like that again. But Dean only looked back down at the dishes he was scrubbing.

"Thank you for dinner," Castiel said, wanting to fill the silence. He wiped down the plate until the glass squeaked, but lines of moisture were still left on the glass. He set it down on the counter and picked up the next one. "It was nice to eat something that didn't come from a take-out box."

"Yeah? Where you've been going?" Dean asked, sponging down the last plate before handing it to Castiel. It dripped a little onto Castiel's shoes, but he didn't complain. He realized he'd never stood this close to Dean before. He smelled nice—like motor oil and something musky. Castiel never thought he'd describe motor oil as a pleasant scent, but it was on Dean.

"Mostly, the diner."

Dean looked at him. Hardly. It was a sideways glance out of the corners of his eyes, and his face was barely turned toward Castiel, but his eyes were skewed up in thought and his lips were puckered and he was, in fact, looking at him. "The one on Monterey?"

Castiel nodded, getting the feeling he'd done something wrong.

"Nah, you gotta go to the one on 40. It's not as chi-chi but the food’s way better, and cheaper. They make a great burger."

Castiel smiled at that. "I like burgers."

Dean had picked up the pan he'd used to cook the roast. It was covered in grease and a black burned substance that must have been difficult to get out, because he was scrubbing hard, putting his elbow into it. The yellow sponge was getting stained brown. Distractedly, he said, "Well, I'll have to take you for one sometime."

Castiel froze. He hadn't expected that. Surely, Dean hadn't meant it. But the seizing feeling in his chest was a strong indicator of hope.

Belatedly, Dean must have realized what he'd said, because he stammered to correct himself. "At, you know—the diner. I mean, I can show you where it is. On a map."

Castiel's pulse was racing. Dean was flushing a hot shade of pink. His tongue was the same color when it darted out, soft and shiny, to wet his lips. Castiel tracked the movement as if it happened in slow motion.

Dean apparently gave up on the pan, because he dropped it, letting it clatter into the sink. He squeezed some soap into it and let the water fill it up with suds. He quickly moved on to the utensils.

"So, Boston, huh?"

"Yes," Castiel said, trying to shake his embarrassment. It had been a misunderstanding. Dean had misspoken. That was all. "Well, technically Belmont. That's where I grew up. I live in Fenway now, in the city. When I'm there, that is."

He didn't know why he was giving so much detail. It was unlikely such names meant anything to Dean.

"Cool," Dean said, nodding. "Go Sox."

Castiel didn't follow sports very much, so he didn't respond.

Dean held out a fork, and their fingers brushed slightly as Castiel took it from him. Just when Castiel's heart rate had settled, too. Why was this so stressful?

He heard Dean clear his throat. "So, what brought you all the way to Kansas? Besides, you know . . ."

The dishcloth was starting to get soaked by then, but Castiel ran the utensils through it anyway as Dean handed them over. "My work takes me all over."

Dean nodded. "Your airline miles must be insane."

"Actually, they're not. I drive."

Dean shut off the water and turned around, leaning casually against the sink as he folded his arms over his chest. He didn't move back to put any space between them, Castiel realized.

"That right? Yeah, I hate flying, too."

"I don't hate flying," Castiel told him. "I love it."

Dean laughed, and Castiel's gut fluttered at the sight of his smile again. He didn't know what he'd said that was funny, but he felt proud nonetheless. "Wow, _love_? Really? Not even just garden-variety _like_?"

Castiel shrugged. "I wanted to be a pilot when I was a child."

That earned him another bemused bark of laughter. "Why the hell do you drive, then?"

"Well," Castiel said, licking his lips and looking up as he decided the best way to phrase this. "My line of work draws . . . a certain amount of attention from the authorities. The federal government doesn't like me leaving the State of Massachusetts. I find it best to avoid unnecessary security checkpoints if I can. I have to answer less questions that way."

Dean's smile faded slowly. His green eyes darted along Castiel's features. "Right," he said, dragging the word out. He sniffed and looked down at his crossed ankles. Castiel immediately regretted saying anything.

They were both silent for a long time, Dean thinking and Castiel not knowing what to say to make him stop. And then Dean said softly, "You, uh—really believe in what you're doing, huh?"

Castiel nodded. "I do."

Dean brought his eyes up, more guarded than before. "Why? Don’t you believe in fate or something?"

The question struck him. He hadn't expected it from Dean. "Do you?"

Dean didn't answer, but Castiel got the impression it would be a no. Castiel sighed and said, "I believe in fate. I also believe in choices. Fate doesn't have to rule us if we don't allow it to, especially when it's handed us suffering."

Dean just looked at him, gaze searching and lips parted slightly. Castiel thought, maybe, they were beginning to understand each other.

Dean's gaze snagged on his, and it lingered for a moment before flickering down to his lips. Castiel wondered if Dean was thinking about kissing him, too.

No. This was wrong. This wasn't just crossing the line, this was erasing it. Castiel turned away. "I should go."

"Right, yeah," Dean said, snapping out of his own reverie. "I'll walk you out."

Castiel collected his briefcase and walked down the hall, looking at the framed pictures as he went. There were Dean and Sam at various ages, a smiling picture of Mary, John holding up a softball bat at home plate. All of it made Castiel ache. This family had lost enough, suffered enough. It wasn't fair. He wanted them to be as they were in these photographs, smiling and unburdened, even if only for the time it took to take a snapshot.

Dean trailed behind him the whole way.

When they got to the front door, they lingered for a moment, neither of them moving to open it. They stood facing each other, and Castiel didn't know what to do. He gripped the strap of his briefcase and looked down before meeting Dean's eyes again.

"Tell you mother and Sam I said goodnight," he said gently. He could barely hear himself.

"Okay."

Castiel swallowed. "And thank you again for letting me stay for dinner."

Dean opened his mouth to say something flippant, like "sure thing" or maybe "anytime." He closed it again, leaving it unspoken between them. He wouldn't really mean it, anyway, Castiel knew.

"Well. Goodnight, Dean." Castiel opened the door and stepped out into the cold night.

Behind him, Dean grabbed the door gently by the wood. He said, "Night, Cas."

Usually, Castiel hated that nickname. His parents never used it, and Anna only ever did when she was teasing him. Gabriel sometimes called him Cas, but he'd given himself that liberty. Everyone else who had called him that where casual acquaintances who did it without his permission, and it always made him grind his teeth.

But then Dean said it and it sounded brand new, like no one else had ever called him that in his entire life. Castiel couldn't explain it. He suddenly wanted to be referred to as nothing but Cas from then on.

And he realized suddenly that he'd called Dean by his first name to his face. He had never done that before. It had slipped out so naturally, like the word wasn't foreign to his tongue in the slightest, where he’d struggled with his own sister’s name just hours before. He didn't need to get a feel for Dean’s name in his mouth; it was already there. He didn't think Dean had even noticed it happening, either.

When he looked over his shoulder, the door was closed. Dean hadn't slammed it. Castiel hadn't heard him shut it at all.

///

Castiel didn’t see Dean again for a week and, when he did, it was completely by accident.

He was in the park, strolling down the winding walkway with his hands shoved into his coat pockets to keep them from chapping against the wind chill. His nose was already numb and, he was certain, a shade of red that resembled the dried leaves crunching underfoot. But it was nice. Going for a walk always cleared his mind, as if he were walking away from his troubles instead of carrying them around with him.

Unfortunately, they always found a way of catching up to him eventually.

He’d dreamt of Anna last night. Anna, and the rhythmic beeping of an EKG. Anna, and the sterile scent of hospitals that got stuck in his throat and made him want to gag. Anna, and cold pale skin.

“Cas?”

Castiel glanced up. He realized he had zoned out while he was walking, and he didn’t quite remember the last few yards. Dean was on a bench along the walkway, a half-eaten sandwich sticking out of a plastic baggie in his hand.

“Oh,” Castiel said, trying to knock himself out of his slump. “Hello, Dean.” He didn’t have an appointment with the Winchesters that day, and he really wasn’t in the mood to act professional. But perhaps he didn’t need to. Dean never seemed to appreciate it very much, anyway.

He approached the bench, hovering next to it momentarily, his hands forming awkwardly into fists at his side. Dean stared up at him wordlessly, and Castiel took that to mean it was okay for him to sit down.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Dean, eyeing his sandwich. “Besides eating lunch.”

“That’s about it, actually,” Dean said. He was squinting slightly in the early October sun. It hit is hair just right, making it light up in what could almost be auburn. “The garage isn’t far from here. I usually stretch my legs during my break. Clear my head. You know.”

Castiel couldn’t help the distinct rush that went through him at the commonality between them, even if it was just walking in a park. He wanted to know more. “Yes, I do,” he said as Dean took a rather large bite of his sandwich, leaving less than a quarter of it. “The garage. Mary said it was yours.”

Dean nodded, a lump moving slowly down his throat as he swallowed his bite. Castiel watched his Adam’s apple bob. “Yeah. Is now, anyway.” He explained, “It was my dad’s. Before . . .” He cut himself off and looked down.

Castiel hadn’t meant to upset him. It seemed that was all Castiel made him feel, besides anger. After a moment, Dean ate the last bite of his food and brushed his large hands together to get rid of the crumbs.

Castiel said, “Your mother told me he passed away. I’m sorry.”

Dean nodded, like he’d expected to Castiel to already have the information. “That’s one way to put it. It was a long time ago,” he said, but the tone of his voice revealed a different attitude. Castiel wondered if this could help Dean open up about his mother’s departure.

Dean leaned forward, folding his hands together between his knees and staring out at the street on the other side of the park. “It happened in the Impala.” He turned to Castiel, and must have seen the lack of recognition in his expression because he rolled his eyes. Although, there was no heat behind it. “My car.”

“I see.”

He turned away again. “Usually, Baby’d be able to take it. She could bounce right off of any other car. They’re all made outta plastic and they’re light as a feather these days. But . . . it was a tractor-trailer. Driver had been on the road too many hours. Was practically asleep behind the wheel. Ran a red light.”

Castiel stayed quiet, listening. It was a tactic he learned from a therapist his parents had made him go to years ago. Remain quiet, and the other person will feel the need to keep talking.

And Dean did keep talking. “Sammy and me were in the car, too, you know?”

Mary hadn’t told him that part. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah.” Dean dropped his head, and rubbed at the back of his neck. Castiel watched his thick fingers dig into his skin until he dropped his arm again. “Sam was just learning how to drive. He was behind the wheel. Dad was in the front teaching him. I was in the back. Sam made it out with a few scrapes, nothing big. Thank God. But, uh . . . I woke up a couple days later in the hospital. Few weeks later, Dad still hadn’t.”

This was good. It had taken a while, but Dean was finally being honest with himself. He didn’t want to lose another parent. That was more than understandable.

He chuckled dryly and shook his head. “Dad wasn’t even supposed to be in the car. I was supposed to be teaching Sam. But he said I was too annoying. ‘Cause, you know—car was gonna be mine one day. I didn’t want him wrecking it. So Dad came out and told me to get in the back.” His expression twisted, and his eyes were far away but they were no doubt looking inward. “I shoulda been the one in the front.”

“Dean, it wasn’t your fault,” Castiel told him sincerely. Mary had mentioned that Dean blamed himself for his father’s death; Castiel just didn’t know why. Now that he did, he knew it really, truly wasn’t Dean’s responsibility.

Dean ran his hand over his mouth. “Yeah, maybe,” he allowed, but he clearly didn’t believe it. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. He said, “Anyway. The car was totaled after that, all bent out of shape. But I fixed her right up—good as new. Better than new. Just like Dad taught me.”

And that was it. That was the crux of the problem right there.

“But cancer isn’t a car accident,” Castiel said. Dean looked at him suddenly, eyes lost and vulnerable. Castiel continued, “There won’t be anything to fix once your mother’s gone. That makes you afraid.”

Dean’s expression shuttered. “Yeah, well, what do you know?” he scoffed into a laugh, trying to play it off.

Castiel leaned forward, too, so that Dean wouldn’t have to strain his neck. It was better to be level with him for such a conversation. “I meant what I said, Dean. Your father—this. None of it is your responsibility. You can’t continuously carry the brunt of your family’s trauma without it causing you to collapse. Your mother doesn’t want that. Why do you think she’s going through with this? She told me you and Sam moved back in with her after she was diagnosed, to help take care of her. But you aren’t taking care of yourself, Dean. You have a life of your own. Your mother wants you to get back to that. And maybe you know that already, and perhaps it’s what you want, too. Maybe that’s causing you guilt. But it shouldn’t. This isn’t your fault.”

Perhaps Castiel was only projecting now—or maybe not. He understood Dean’s sitatuation more than he’d wanted to. And he was hoping to help Dean in a way no one had offered him, but Dean’s expression had only turned stony. His eyes flashed and brows knitted together like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “She isn’t a burden. I’m not gonna be relieved when she’s gone.”

With slight frustration, Castiel wondered how Dean could have possibly interpreted that.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to!” Dean yelled, baring his teeth, suddenly quick to anger. Nearby, a strolling couple turned their heads toward the sound, and quickly walked away.

“Dean—”

“No! I don’t need a back alley therapy session from some murderer for hire,” he said, voice hard. He flapped his hand out to indicate Castiel with disgust. “You say you’re all about helping people—but how much are we paying you again? To kill my mom?”

Castiel wanted to point out that technically Mary would be killing herself. He refrained. He didn’t want Dean to think any less of him than he already did.

“Sam and Mom may buy into this whole shtick, but me? I ain’t convinced. So stay outta my head, and stay the hell away from me!”

Castiel had tried to help. He really had. But Dean wasn’t even attempting to deal with what was going to happen, what his mother was choosing. It would destroy him but, if he didn’t want Castiel’s help, so be it. Castiel wasn’t a psychiatrist. This wasn’t his job.

He sighed, shrugging out his hands to signal he’d given up before dropping them to his lap. “Fine. We’ll keep our relationship strictly professional from now on.”

“Yeah, how ‘bout we make it strictly nothing?” Dean shot back. He stood up suddenly, still glaring. Castiel tilted his head up to stare back, simmering.

“Go fuck yourself,” Dean told him heatedly, and that must have wrapped up his tirade, because he turned around on the heels of his boots and walked off.

Castiel stared after him, chest pounding with a mixture of irritation, anger, and impatience. And the overwhelming urge to go after him.

///

A few days later, Castiel was knocking on the Winchesters' front door and pointedly tried not to notice the absence of the Impala in the driveway. It was evening, the streetlamps lining the block already flickering on in the gray dusk, and Castiel could feel the winter coming on the air like a shadow chasing the dying sun. Dean usually didn't work that late, but it didn't matter. It was none of Castiel's business.

Besides, it was probably for the best that Dean wasn't around. He wouldn't like why Castiel was there. He doubted any of the Winchesters would, and even he was feeling a tightening in his chest in anticipation. But it had to be done. He had a job to do.

A few seconds later, the door was swinging open to Sam. He had Mary's quilted care bag tucked under his arm, a few loose items of clothing that looked like hooded sweaters sticking out of the top. He seemed a little harried, dark circles under his eyes. He was wearing his jacket despite the fact that he was inside.

"Oh. Hey, Cas," Sam said, the wild look in his eyes subsiding somewhat. Castiel couldn't help but to feel a rush of warmth at the diminutive form of his name. Sam had only ever called him Castiel, which probably meant the brothers had spoken about Castiel at some point. They'd spoken about him, and Dean had referred to him as Cas.

"Hello, Sam," Castiel said. He looked past him into the dark hallway. The house was quiet beyond but, despite everything, he half-expected Dean to appear from the back. "I'm looking for your mother. I . . ." There was no real easy way to say this. "She's been approved to order the materials needed for her departure date."

He'd gotten the approval that morning, but something inside of him wanted to ignore it. He kept telling himself he would inform the Winchesters right away—after he filled out some paperwork that he needed to get done, and then after he mailed in his rent check to his landlord in Boston. After he paid some bills online. And then he needed lunch and a coffee. And then maybe the cancer would go away and Mary could stay alive to be with her sons.

It had taken him all day to work up enough bravado to finally come over. Because, in truth, he didn't want to see the reality of it all sink into the Winchesters' expressions.

"Oh," Sam said again, this time softer. He looked down, his jaw tensing and his nostrils flaring out a little. "Right."

Castiel's gut churned at seeing the sad lines of Sam's brow.

Sam looked up again, pushing his emotion to the side. "Now's not really a good time," he said. "She isn't home. She's . . ." He swallowed and shook his head once. "I think she's been exerting herself a little too much. She came down with a cold a couple days ago and it turned into pneumonia. She's in the hospital." He lifted his arm a little to indicate the care bag. "I'm headed back over there now."

Cas felt his lips part slightly in shock. He felt strangely numb, and heard himself say from somewhere far away, "Is she—?"

Sam moved his head in a way that could either be construed as a nod or a shake. "Yeah, no—she's—they think she'll pull through." He pressed a hopeful smile to his lips, like he was an attempt to comfort Castiel. Castiel realized it should have been the other way around.

He looked away, his eyes finding the empty space in the driveway again. "Is Dean with her now?"

"Yeah. I just came back to pick up a few things."

Castiel ignored how tight his throat felt when he swallowed. "How is he handling it?" He shouldn't have been concerned about Dean. He should have been worrying about Mary—or no, he shouldn't have been. He wanted her to be able to decide when and how to die, but her illness was terminal, after all. He would still get paid for his time and efforts whether she passed away now or later. He shouldn't have cared.

He steeled his expression and forced himself to look back at Sam, retroactively attempting to make his question seem polite instead of heartfelt.

Sam was squinting at him thoughtfully, and Castiel was certain he could see right through him. "I mean," he said, "it's Dean. You know what he's like."

Castiel sucked in a breath. His resolve faltered momentarily before he straightened his posture again and nodded once. "Give Mary my best," he said, forcing calm. "Let me know when we're able to proceed."

Sam jerked his head back in surprise and blinked rapidly. Castiel turned around on his heels and started down the walkway. Behind him, he heard Sam say, "Uh—yeah, okay. Sure."

As Castiel walked back to his car, he fisted his hands tightly at his sides. It felt like every muscle in his body was clenching, desperate to hold back a flood. Something was ratcheting its way up his chest. He walked as quickly as he could without breaking into a full sprint, even though he was fairly sure Sam wasn't watching him.

He was holding his breath, afraid that, if he tried to exhale, it would shudder out of him and cause the tautly pulled string of his body to tremble.

He fished for his keys in his coat pocket and fumbled with them slightly as he opened the car door with probably more force than was necessary. Once inside, in the warm and confined bubble of privacy, he let himself breathe. He didn’t allow himself to panic. He shoved all emotion down again and drove off.

///

Castiel wasn’t even aware that he’d fallen asleep. He’d been watching the news on the static-prone television of his motel room, and the next thing he knew he was startling awake to see a Kimmel monologuing in front of a live audience. He grunted and sat up from his slouch against the headboard of his bed, where he was propped up with his legs stretched out in front of him. The room was dark but for the blue glow radiating from the television and the crack of yellow light streaming in from the bathroom. He ran his hand down his face, and his first thought was to turn off the TV and go right back to bed.

But something had woken him up. His cell phone was on the bed next to him, its screen alight as it chirped for his attention. He looked down at the caller ID.

Sam Winchester.

Immediately, something cold ran down his spine, and he was very alert. Terror crept up the back of his neck, telling him, when he picked up the phone, Sam would inform him that Mary’s sickness was worse than they’d thought. She was dead. It hit him like a bomb.

He stretched out his fingers haltingly toward the phone, knowing it should pick it up before it stopped ringing. He forced himself to do just that, and his voice sounded raspy and shaky to his own ears when he said into the receiver, “Sam?”

“Hey! Cas, glad you picked up,” Sam said. His voice was quiet, a respectful whisper as to not wake someone up. He sounded weary, but not upset. Castiel felt relief wash over him. That meant Mary was still alive.

“What’s wrong?” he asked anyway.

Sam let out a heavy breath at that. There was a pause before he said, “It’s Dean.”

Castiel was suddenly bolt upright on the bed. He hadn’t expected to hear those words. Those two words. They made his heart hammer.

Before he even fully processed what was happening, he was saying, “What is it? Is he alright?” He sounded fearful and forlorn, and he needed to get a hold of himself.

“He’s fine,” Sam said in a placating way. Castiel relaxed, but cautiously so. He heard shuffling over the line, like Sam was switching his phone from one ear to the other. “He went out to get us both a bite to eat . . . three hours ago.”

Castiel’s forehead lined in confusion.

“He was really messed up about Mom being here. I think he must be at a bar,” Sam went on. “Look, I hate to ask this, but I have to stay here with Mom, and if he’s drunk, he might say something about—you know. You. I mean, the Departure Network.”

Castiel followed his line of thinking. “And we can’t allow anyone to know what we’re doing.”

“Exactly.”

“You want me to go find Dean?” His voice was even, measured, as he said it, but he felt anything but calm. This was probably overstepping his boundaries, but the Sam was asking for his help. He had to help them. Dean was out there somewhere, alone and angry and depressed. Castiel ached thinking about him that way. He wanted to take Dean back to his motel room and just lay there in bed with him, holding him until Dean felt safe enough to sleep.

It was a stupid thing to want. It would never happen.

He heard Sam blow out his cheeks. “Yeah, if you can. Just like, get him home—or at least take his keys off him. He’s probably at one of two bars. I can text you’re their addresses?”

Castiel reminded himself that he shouldn’t get involved in family matters.

“Of course.”

Sam paused. And then, “You sure?” He asked it as if he hadn’t called Castiel for this specific reason. And, no, Castiel wasn’t sure, but he knew Sam was relying on him—in a way, so was Dean—and he couldn’t let them down.

“Yes.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam said, sounding both sincere and relieved. Castiel was glad he could take this weight off Sam’s shoulders.

The call ended, and Castiel hauled himself out of bed and walked to the closet, where he’d hung his clothes. He pulled on his faded old jeans, and kept the black t-shirt he was wearing for bed over it. He grabbed his coat next. On the bed, his phone lit up in a text message from Sam.

Castiel grabbed it, and then snatched his car and motel room keys off the table in the corner of the room. He set out into the frigid night.

The first bar Castiel went to was a rundown sort of place built out of slated wood, seemingly something of a relic of a time long past. It loomed on the gravel lot, scattered with pickup trucks and cars parked at haphazard angles, as a shadow in the night. Neon beer signs buzzed from the bar’s windows, painting the night in their various glows of color.

The Impala was parked toward the back of the lot, where grass began to poke out of the loose gravel, carefully parked away from the other cars to avoid bumps and scratches. Castiel was simultaneously relieved and annoyed. Relieved, because Dean was there, and he was likely fine. Annoyed, because Dean was not at the hospital where he was supposed to be and Castiel had to go looking for him while the clock neared midnight, which was decidedly not part of his job description.

When Castiel entered the bar, the soft melody of a folky rock song drifted toward him. The crowd was thin, a few people around the booths and the tattered pool table, only one group in a hushed conversation. It was a weeknight, but even at peak social hours Castiel wasn't certain the place would be filled with a young crowd looking for a good time.

He squinted toward the bar, finding Dean at one of the corner stools, elbows up on the counter and head hung so low his nose was practically brushing the rim on the rocks glass before him. He picked up the glass and slowly sipped at the amber liquid it contained. Castiel stormed up to him, not caring whether or not he startled Dean.

Dean did a double take before realizing who was standing next to him, but when Castiel's presence registered, he groaned, "Oh, God. What do you want?" His words were slightly slurred and his eyes a little glassy, but he didn't appear too drunk. He picked up his glass again and knocked the whole thing back in one go, grimacing at the burn as it went down.

"We're leaving," Castiel told him, his tone leaving no room for debate; but, somehow, Dean argued anyway.

"I'm good, thanks." He lifted up a finger to signal toward the bartender for one more.

Castiel huffed. "Dean—"

"Lemme guess," Dean interrupted, looking fully at Castiel and giving him a smirk that looked more pissed off than anything else. "Sam told you to pick me up."

"Yes."

The bartender came over with a bottle of whiskey, about to top of Dean's drink. Castiel snatched the glass away. "Close his tab."

"Fuck off," Dean growled. He took the glass back and pushed it closer to the bartender, whose eyes were flashing between the two of them like he didn't know who to listen to.

Castiel shot the man a withering look, remembering that he wasn't the one to be angry with. "Please," he tried.

The bartender walked away, taking the whiskey with him.

"What the hell's your problem?" Dean yelled suddenly, getting to his feet and turning into Castiel. He swayed slightly.

"You," Castiel growled. They were attracting some looks, but he didn't care. He grabbed Dean by the elbow and tried to pull him toward the door, but Dean shook him off.

"Just leave me alone, Cas."

 _Not my job_ , Castiel tried to tell himself. But he couldn't very well let Dean get behind of the wheel in his condition. He wasn't just drunk; he was upset.

Castiel pushed a tight smile. "Fine," he said, and immediately shoved his hand into one of Dean's jacket pockets. It was empty.

Dean tried to jump away, startled, but Castiel gripped the lapel of his jacket to keep him in place. He tried the other pocket.

"The fuck—?"

"Where are your keys?" he asked impatiently. He opened Dean's jacket and found a few breast pockets inside.

Dean swatted him away furiously. "Get your hands off me. I'm fine!"

"If you drive, you're going to kill yourself."

"What d'you care? Ain't that your job—to kill a Winchester? Why not me instead of Mom? What difference does it make?"

It made all the difference. Castiel had to bite back those words as rage flooded through him. It shouldn't have made a difference at all. So far, Dean had called Castiel a serial killer, a murderer, a Nazi—maybe even a hit man. He had no respect for him and would have preferred it if Castiel had never darkened his doorway, and perhaps he had a point. Perhaps Castiel deserved his insults and his threats, but he shouldn't have cared.

"Dean, _enough_!" He stepped further into Dean's personal space, their chests nearly touching. He ignored the tense tingle on his skin in the proximity, and the way Dean was looking at him like he wanted nothing more than to tear into Castiel.

Simmering, Castiel dropped his voice low. "I understand you pain—and your anger. But your mother is in the hospital and all you're doing is giving your brother more reason to worry with your irresponsibility. What you're doing here won't solve your problems, Dean. So, we're leaving. Now."

Dean's eyes darkened and dulled as he continued to stare Castiel down, and it felt like it lasted hours before he let out a breath, his posture slumping slightly as he relented.

Castiel pulled out his wallet from his coat and dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, hoping it was enough to cover Dean's expenses. He kept his eyes fixed on Dean the entire time. Then, he grabbed Dean by the arm and all but dragged him outside.

"You shouldn't even be here," Dean told him after Castiel pushed the door open, a blast of cold air hitting him as they walked outside.

Castiel laughed dryly. Dean had no idea how correct he was with that statement.

"Seriously. Get— _off_ me, you dick." He pulled himself out of Castiel's hold, and Castiel spun around to scramble for him. Thankfully, he didn't go back into the bar, but he was making for the Impala.

Castiel let out a frustrated sound. "Dean!"

He stomped after him, moving as fast as he could. Dean's legs were a little longer than his, making his strides quicker, but Castiel managed to put himself between Dean and the car, halting him.

"Get out of my way."

"You can pick your car up in the morning when you're sober."

Dean rolled his eyes, tried to side-step Castiel. Castiel pounced. He wrapped his arms around Dean's midsection and dug his heels into the gravel, hearing it scrap underfoot as Dean tried to push forward. They ended up in a kind of embrace as Castiel pushed him away from the Impala's general direction and toward his own car.

"Jesus—you're fuckin'—" Dean said, grunting with exertion. "How are you so _strong_?"

Castiel ignored him and continued to push until they were near the passenger side door of his car. He grabbed Dean's sleeve again, holding him tightly as if he were a recalcitrant child having a temper tantrum, and pulled the door open.

"Get in."

"Fuck you." Dean tried to get away again, so Castiel wrapped his arms around him once more. But Dean must have found some of his strength because it was more difficult this time, and Castiel had to plant his leg between Dean's as they struggled. Dean's hipbone kept rutting against his, and he imagined he wouldn’t have minded that so much had it been happening under different circumstances.

“Dean, get in the car. D—Dean—” Castiel wrestled to keep him in his hold as Dean spun around, this time pointed in the direction of the bar.

“Fuck you! I’m—back inside!” Dean slurred, his words lost to a few grunting noises as he attempted to unlatch Castiel’s arms from around him. “Jesus, stop being so _beefy_!”

Castiel didn’t really know how to respond to that, but that wasn’t really the prominent issue at hand. Dean had managed to lose enough of his strength for Castiel to get a better grip on him. He fisted Dean’s sleeve and manhandled him back around, pulling him by the shoulder toward his car. He tried not to show how out of breath it made him.

Dean protested the entire way, and even tried swatting Castiel’s hand, but it was a lame attempt. Castiel shoved Dean into the passenger seat of his car. Instantly, all the fight left Dean. He slumped against the seat, grumbling to himself like an angsty teenager.

Castiel slammed the door and briskly walked around to the driver’s side to slip in.

“Stupid fuckin’ serial killer,” Dean mumbled, and Castiel rolled his eyes. He was exhausted, and he was at his wit’s end with Dean Winchester.

He didn’t even have the keys in the ignition when he dropped his arms to his lap and glared at Dean in the shadows of the passenger seat. “You’re impossible.”

“ _You’re_ impossible,” Dean slurred back mulishly.

Castiel didn’t let that deter him. “You’re reckless and selfish and belligerent and, in all my years of doing this, you are the most unpleasurable person I have ever known.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He blinked drunkenly at Castiel, one of his eyelids sticking together a half of a second longer than the other one at a point. His lips were parted in something that could have been offense or disbelief, and Castiel didn’t really care.

“What _is_ your problem, anyway?” he continued on, barely thinking about the words leaving his mouth. He would probably regret them later. They were unprofessional, and Dean could have him reported to his superiors. He could have Castiel fired. Worse than that, if Dean got mad enough, he could call the police.

Strangely, however, Castiel trusted him not to do any of those things. And perhaps that was why he continued his tirade.

“Are you really _that_ opposed to your mother making her own decisions? Do you really think your childish behavior will somehow make her better? Or is your issue with me? Would you prefer it if someone else handled your mother’s case, because, personally, I would love nothing more than to part ways with you for good.”

“Then why don’t you just _go_?” Dean yelled, his voice too big for such a small space. “Just leave my family the fuck alone! You—you come in here like—like—I don’t even know! Like you have any idea what the hell we’re going through!”

Castiel’s jaw tightened. Dean was the one with no idea.

“But you just get to walk away after this! You just get to fuckin’ walk away! No funeral, no nothing. No stupid fruitcakes and condolences baskets or whatever. Me and Sammy are the ones who after to watch her die! And we have to live with that when she’s gone and you got _no_ idea what that like—”

“Yes, I do!”

Dean shut up immediately, and for a second Castiel didn’t understand why. He didn’t even process that he’d spoken for a long few seconds. He blinked, and then Dean blinked, both of them dumbfounded and caught off balance. And then Dean said, his voice small and without anger, “What?”

Castiel held his stare for a long time, trying to stay angry. It would be easier. Anger, frustration, loathing—he could trick himself into believing all of those things were close enough to apathy. They would make it easier to leave the Winchesters behind, to leave Dean behind, when all of this was done. He could remain detached and go back to Boston—to his lonely studio apartment and microwave dinners and estranged parents and photographs from a happier time shoved in a drawer to collect dust.

It would be easier to hate Dean than to let him in. Because once that door was open, Castiel didn’t know if he could shut it. Not for Dean.

It was ill advised, and downright stupid, but he let go of his anger and let his grief take hold. He wanted to tell Dean what happened. He wanted to have some kind of connection with him, no matter how morbid. And maybe . . . Maybe he just wanted to talk about his sister. Maybe it was time.

“I had a sister. Anna. She was . . . We were close. When she was nineteen, we found out she had leukemia. And we tried—” he shook his head, the corners of his mouth twisting upward in a bitter scoff, “everything.”

Dean was staring at him again, a mixture of shock and sympathy on his face.

Castiel looked down at his lap, unable to meet Dean’s eyes, darkened by the night but still so green, head on. “It was too advanced. And I watched her weaken and deteriorate and inevitably die.” He could still see his sister in her hospital bed—how fragile she’d become. He thought, if he breathed on her the wrong way, she’d blow away like dust. “And there was nothing I could do.”

He never wanted another family to go through that. He didn’t want to see anyone give up their life to take care of their loved one, like he had—hoping beyond hope that a bowl of soup or a movie marathon or prayer or sleeping curled up on the floor beside a sickbed would change anything. He didn’t want to see any family members so caught up in haplessness and indecision, it choked them. He didn’t want to see parents get a divorce because of the strain of a child’s death. He didn’t want anyone else to fall apart as a loved one slipped away with painful slowness. He wanted people to know they had options; that they didn’t have to accept their fate. They could choose.

Anna never got to choose.

He dared to look back up at Dean. “I understand how powerless you feel, Dean. But, believe me, you do not want to put your family through the alternative.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a long time. He just stared ahead. It was dark, but Castiel thought he saw a tear drop down quickly from his cheek in the pink glow of a neon sign. And that was a relief. It meant Dean was accepting what had to be done; but it didn’t make it any less unfair.

“I want her to get better,” Dean said at last, voice low and soft and thick.

Castiel shook his head sadly. “Dean, if I could do that—” He swallowed, knowing that this was crossing a line, knowing he shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t even think it. But it was true. “I would give anything to have you not go through this.”

Dean licked his lips. “No one should have to go through this.”

“No,” Castiel agreed, and maybe he should have left it at that. Maybe he should have let Dean believe he’d been speaking in general terms. But he said, “But I meant _you_.”

Dean sucked in a breath. It was sharp, and almost sounded like a gasp. And then, before Castiel even knew what was happening, Dean had leaned into the driver seat and kissed him. He missed at first, whether that was because it was dark or because he was drunk, but he quickly found a way to correct himself, and perhaps Castiel even made it easier for him by turning into the kiss.

His lips were pliant as they moved against Castiel’s, and his tongue tasted sweet and bitter like bourbon. It was sloppy and rough and rushed, and simultaneously the tenderest kiss Castiel had ever received. Dean’s hands were in his hair, tugging gently as he ran his finger through it. Castiel realized he was touching Dean’s face, cradling the hard line of his jaw to keep him from going anywhere—but he didn’t think Dean would. Not with the low sounds being pulled up from the back of his throat.

He wanted to pull Dean closer, to kiss his cheeks where the tear had fallen and take away any pain and sadness that Dean had wrapped like a coil around his heart. Because he didn’t deserve any of it. He deserved his mother and father and his brother, for all of them to live to a ripe old age, unburdened by tragedy and untouched by illness. He deserved happiness; and he didn’t deserve someone like Castiel coming into his life to create more pain.

And it was then that Castiel remembered why he was there, why his path had crossed with Dean’s. And this was so beyond getting attached. This might even be considered taking advantage. It was wrong, and inappropriate.

Dean must have come to a similar conclusion at the exact same moment, because they both froze against each other. And then Dean swiftly pulled away. He turned his face down and away as if he were ashamed, and Castiel couldn’t help the sting of rejection he felt at that, even though he had no right to feel it.

“Dean, I—I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it—I was—” Dean rattled his head as if to sober himself up. God, he was drunk. He was drunk and in pain and Castiel had just kissed him back. Castiel had let Dean kiss him. “Let’s just forget about it.”

Castiel nodded, both relieved and disappointed, because Dean was giving him an out. Dean was letting it slide, and Castiel should have been nothing but grateful. But he wanted to kiss Dean again so badly.

“Yes. Of course,” he agreed. “I’ll just—” Castiel remembered the weight of his keys on his lap. He picked them up too fast, fumbling with them a bit before being able to regain enough control to put them in the ignition.

He had to drive Dean home. That was at least a fifteen-minute car ride, and it was bound to be the most awkward fifteen minutes of his life. He thought he should apologize again, but he didn’t know if that would change Dean’s mind about forgetting what happened.

He drove in the direction of the Winchester’s house, praying that Dean would still be as forgiving in the morning. The entire way, Dean was silent, save for the fact that he was clearing his throat far too much, and his fists were squeezed, knuckles white, on his lap. Castiel tried very hard to keep his eyes to himself, but he couldn’t help it. They kept flickering to the bow of Dean’s legs, to his knees, his hips, and it made him shift uncomfortably with thoughts of just how much he wanted to keep kissing Dean—everywhere.

This was excruciating.

At last, he pulled up to the front of the house, and Dean was opening his door while the car was still in motion.

“Thanks for the, uh—for the ride,” Dean said awkwardly, and the tips of his ears were flushed pink in the glow of the streetlamp. It was adorable, and Castiel errantly wondered what other parts of him were flushed.

“Yes, I—you’re welcome. For the ride,” he stammered back, feeling an embarrassed blush of his own creeping up his neck. It was clear that neither of them would soon _forget_ what happened.

Dean hopped out of the car as hastily as he could, and shut the door behind him. Castiel watched him walk up to the front door, drop his keys on the step, hiss a curse, bend down to pick them up, and then shove them into the lock to get inside.

Castiel let out a heavy breath, a cocktail of emotion roiling in his gut.

This was very much the opposite of remaining detached.

This was falling for one of his charges.


	3. Chapter 3

"Because that's what I want, that's why."

"A Beatles cover band? Come on, Mom! This is your funeral we're talking about. You only get one. Might as well go big and get a Zepp cover band. Cas, back me up."

"Hey, why can't I back you up?"

"Shut up, Sam. You'd do something lame like Phil Collins."

"I stand by Phil Collins."

"You would."

"He's great and you know it."

"Fine. Dean, you can have a Led Zeppelin cover band at your funeral, Sam can have Phil Collins. But I'm going with the Beatles, got it?"

Castiel almost couldn't believe what he was hearing, but he honestly should have expected it from the Winchesters.

It had been a few days since Mary had gotten home from the hospital, and she'd made her sons sit down to help her plan her funeral. A grumble went through the room and Mary insisted it would "be fun." Castiel had gotten roped into it, too, somehow. He didn't see how planning one's own funeral could be considered fun, but so far there were plans for fireworks and a burial plot on the moon, not to mention the Beatles cover band.

They made the real plans a little easier to swallow. A simple ceremony at the local funeral home, bouquets of daisies, and a pine box, as Mary planned to be cremated and her ashes buried in the cemetery with John's so "there's no need for a big expensive casket."

The plans were laid out for Sam and Dean, so they'd know what to do when the time came. None of them would be shared with a funeral director until after Mary had passed, because they decided planning the event with her still alive was too suspect toward her departure. Castiel appreciated their discretion, although he assured them that, in the case of terminal illnesses, it wasn't necessarily unheard of for a person to start planning their funeral. He'd seen many of his patients do it—he'd just never gotten involved. He never even attended the funeral.

He thought, maybe, he would stick around for Mary's, if only to support her sons.

But that was something that seemed very far off, especially at the moment. Mary seemed so alive, so animated, as she sat on the couch across the coffee table from him. She was grinning and laughing and joking around with her family. She was shoveling forkfuls of the pie Dean had picked up from the bakery to celebrate her coming home into her mouth and melting around each bite. It seemed unthinkable that she would be gone soon. It wasn't real. Her presence was much too ingrained within the home, and Castiel thought the physical structure of the house might crumble, and the grass in the lawn might brown, the tree out front would decay, when she died.

But, despite her current state, he knew her condition was worsening. She put on a brave face, but everyone knew. She hadn't fully recovered from her bout of pneumonia, and it was unlikely she ever would. Her lungs were too weak. Every breath she took in rattled slightly, like she was breathing from under water, and she coughed more often than before. The yellowing under her eyes had deepened and spread. Her limbs trembled when she tried to stand. She wore her oxygen tank at all times now, not just when she was leaving the house or performing an activity. Her hood and nitrogen had been ordered as of a few hours ago, which was why Castiel had come over in the first place. They would arrive in a few weeks’ time.

All they had to do now, really, was set a date. It was inevitable.

But, in typical Winchester fashion, no one spoke about it directly. They preferred to bury their grief in morbid humor, which might not have been a bad thing. It was better than Dean's usual surliness.

"What about you, Castiel? Who's going to play at your funeral?" Mary asked.

Castiel dipped his head to the side in consideration, playing along. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. Sam was sitting on the floor, his long legs folded under him. Dean and Mary were across from them on the couch.

"Ella Fitzgerald," he decided. "Or, since she's deceased, the closest I can get to her."

Dean groaned. "Man, that’s worse than Phil Collins! You're supposed to pick someone awesome!"

Castiel's brow collapsed, offended. "She is 'awesome.'"

"Yeah, right."

Castiel pursed his lips. "Then don't come."

"Fine, I won't."

There was a smirk on Dean's face, shy and wistful, and Castiel couldn't stop thinking about kissing him, no matter how hard he tried. Castiel pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and let his eyes flicker downward as he imagined it, and he couldn't stop his own small smile from lighting his face.

This had been the first time he'd seen Dean since their kiss, but he'd thought about him every second—as if he hadn't done that before. It didn't help that, throughout the evening since Castiel arrived, they'd been coyly meeting each other's eyes from across the room, both of them abruptly flushing and looking away. During dinner, Castiel's foot had accidentally brushed against Dean's under the table, and he withdrew it quickly only for Dean to quite deliberately bump their feet together again. It had caused giddiness to flood through Castiel, and he still hadn't quite come down from the high the endorphins had created.

Being near Dean was constantly both frustrating and exhilarating.

Mary let out a thick sounding sigh. "Alright, I should probably head to bed."

Sam was instantly scrambling to his feet. "Here, Mom, let me help you up the stairs," he offered.

Dean was already standing up, his arm hooked into Mary's as he helped her stand. Castiel stood, too. When Sam rounded the coffee table, Dean stepped back to allow Mary to lean on him.

"Goodnight, honey," she said, giving Dean a kiss on the cheek.

"I'll be up in a sec," he promised.

Sam helped Mary shuffle out from between the couch and the coffee table, and they were about to turn toward the room's exit, but Mary abruptly started toward Castiel instead. He must have looked like a deer in the headlights. She pulled herself out of Sam's hold to wrap her arms around him. "Goodnight, Castiel."

He really didn't know what to do. This was the first time one of the Winchesters had hugged him. In fact, he couldn't recall the last time he'd been hugged by anyone. It was strange, but also . . . pleasant. Hesitantly, he brought his arms up and loosely returned the embrace. "Goodnight."

Over Mary's shoulder, he lifted his eyes to find Sam's brow lined with a kind of sadness as he watched his mother while she couldn't see him. His gaze then found Dean, who was looking on with a soft expression that Castiel couldn't quite interpret.

When the hug broke, Mary went back to Sam, and they started out of the room. "'Night, Cas," Sam said over his shoulder. Castiel was still too caught up in the memory of Mary's embrace to respond, but he thought he smiled back shakily.

And then it was just he and Dean in the room, alone for the first time all night. Castiel awkwardly shifted his weight, wondering if he should be brave and say something or be safe and take his leave. Dean didn't look at him, but there was a weight around him that suggested he was _trying_ not to look at Castiel. He busied himself stacking the sticky plates from the pie on the coffee table.

"Well, I . . ." Cas began, inching toward the general direction of the front door. "I should probably—"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean agreed, nodding a tad too much. He straightened up, leaving the plates where they were, and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Listen, Cas, about the other night . . ."

Castiel swallowed. It was more difficult to do than it should have been.

Dean forced himself to look up. "I was being a dick. And you know . . . I said some stuff I didn't mean. I know you were just trying to help." Two things occurred to Castiel then. The first was that Dean was apologizing for his behavior, and it sounded like he was apologizing for more than just the other night. The second was that this was the first time Dean had acknowledged that Castiel was helping them.

"You were upset."

"Well, yeah but . . . Still. Anyway. I just wanted to say thanks," he stumbled to wrap up. "You didn't have to do that. I know it's not your job to babysit drunken assholes."

Castiel didn't know what to say. In truth, he'd forgiven Dean the moment it had happened. He was right about one thing, though: "No, it isn't."

Dean stared at him for a long moment as if he were trying to fathom something out. "Why did you?"

Castiel opened his mouth to say Sam had asked him to, but he knew that wasn't the real reason. His gaze flickered to the floor.

He heard Dean let out a breath. "Am I nuts, or is there something here?" he asked, gesturing between the two of them.

Castiel pressed his lips together and tightened his jaw. Eventually, he said, "You're not nuts."

Dean gave a kind of half-laugh. "'Cause I can't really get you out of my head. I mean, at first, I thought it was because I was so pissed off that you're even here. Because I hated you or something. But I just can't . . . especially after the other night. I can't stop thinking about . . ."

He trailed off, but Castiel knew what he was saying. He couldn't stop thinking about kissing him. "Yeah, I can't, either," Castiel admitted. Even now, he could feel the touch of Dean's mouth on his. He wanted it again so badly—and to hear that Dean wanted it, too . . .

Frustrating. Exhilarating.

And it was sad, because, "Dean, I can't."

Dean licked his lips, silent for a second like he was trying to figure out a way to make it work, but he must have come up empty because he said, "Yeah, I probably shouldn't, either."

Castiel had been so wrapped up in his own issues—his job, his lifestyle, his transient ways, his apparent inability to want to get close to anyone—that he hadn't even considered Dean's own reasons. It would be a mistake. Dean would always remember Castiel as the man who helped his mother die. There couldn't be room for happiness there. It would be too greatly overshadowed.

"So, what do we do?" Dean asked.

Castiel looked at him balefully. He answered, honestly, "Nothing. We do what needs to be done and then . . . we go our separate ways." It was easier said than done, and it was actually very difficult to say. Castiel didn't think he'd ever forget Dean. Truly, he didn't know if he could continue on with his job after this. I would be too hard to separate himself from his patient and their loved ones. It suddenly seemed odd—almost inhuman—that he ever could.

And, for the first time in a long time, he felt human.

Dean nodded, seeming to agree. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

"Okay."

It was for the best.

There was a moment where they stood silently, just staring at each other, neither of them moving. Castiel imagined rushing forward and taking Dean in his arms. Nothing would make him happier.

"I should go," he whispered.

"Yeah," Dean said again. He turned around slowly, walking toward the exit of the living room. Wordlessly, Castiel followed him.

They paused again at the door, locking eyes before Dean reached out and opened it for him. Castiel grabbed his coat off the rack and shrugged into it.

"'Night, Cas," Dean said, his head tipped slightly to the side, making it too easy for Castiel to lean in and press their mouths together. He didn't, but he couldn't stop staring at Dean's lips. They had their own gravitational pull.

"Bye," he said, and walked out into the night. The door closed behind him, and Castiel lingered on the front stoop. He stared at the black wood of the tree. It was a shadow against the sky, its limbs weathered and barren and creaking hauntingly in the breeze.

It was better this way. He couldn't start something with Dean. He was already too involved with the Winchesters as it were. When it was over, he would have to go back to Boston or to his next job. He would have to move on. And so would Dean. The memories from their time together would be depressing enough; he didn't want to make it more difficult for him to look back on them. He wanted Dean to remember him with at least a tiny gossamer of fondness, as unlikely as it was.

And, at the same time, he wanted to comfort Dean now—to be with him through this, after this. To give him a shred of hope. He wanted it for himself, too, because he couldn't quite imagine going back to his lonely life and re-learning how to numb himself to everything and anyone around him. It wasn't what Anna would have wanted. He didn't want it, either, he realized.

With a fit of spontaneous bravado—or maybe it was madness—he spun back around to face the door, but before he could bring his fist up to knock, it swung open again. Dean was there, eyes large and round and searching. He seemed shocked that Castiel was still there before his expression rearranged into stark determination. Then, he stepped out into the cold, and Castiel met him halfway.

They kissed in the yellow glow of the porch light, as the gusts of wind chapped their cheeks and whipped up beneath the tails of Castiel's coat. Dean's hands were on the back of his neck, fingers brushing into his hair. Castiel lifted his hands and placed them on the crook of Dean's elbows, feeling where his sleeves were rolled up. Dean was warm and alive and soft and beautiful. The kiss was gentle, unlike what it was the other night. When Dean's lips parted, the slow roll of his tongue against Castiel's was intoxicating. He tasted like cherry pie.

When they broke to catch their breath, Dean was grinning, and Castiel felt his lips pull up into a gummy smile.

"For the record, this is a really bad idea," Dean said, his voice low and rough.

Castiel nodded in wholehearted agreement as he breathed out a laugh and leaned back in.

///

A few days later, Dean had invited Castiel over for what he called “Winchester Movie Night.” However, it quickly devolved into just the two of them. Sam abandoned them almost immediately, stating that he’d seen Dean’s choice of _Lost Boys_ one too many times. Shortly after, Mary stated she was tired as went to sleep, and Castiel didn’t know why she was grinning as she left he and Dean on the couch.

Regardless, Castiel hadn’t been able to pay much attention to the movie. He’d been far too wrapped up in watching Dean, his eyes alight as he recited the majority of the lines. It should have been annoying. Castiel found himself wanting to be invited to every Winchester Movie Night.

That night, when he returned to his motel room, he saw he had a missed call from Gabriel. It was strange. Gabriel usually didn’t call him during the course of an assignment. They only ever spoke when he was sending Castiel on a new case. The daily reports didn’t count as actual communication, since they were usually one-sided.

Castiel called him back, listening to the line ring as he locked the door behind him and shrugged out of his coat. Just when he expected the call to go to voicemail, Gabriel’s voice came through: “Castiel, hey.”

Maybe Castiel was just hearing things, but there was something like pushed cheer in Gabriel’s tone. He pulled his brows together. “Gabriel. You called?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel answered. “Uh, just a quick thing. Kinda awkward . . . It’s about your daily reports.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side. He wasn’t sure why, but his stomach clenched. He waited for Gabriel to continue, but the line remained silent. “Is there . . . something wrong with them?” he asked unsurely. He didn’t think they were very different than his usual reports. Perhaps they contained more detail, but that was only because the Winchesters preferred for him to be around during their planning. There was more to report.

“No, no! Clean and orderly as ever,” Gabriel told him. Castiel was truly lost. “Kinda long though.”

“Long?” Castiel echoed tonelessly.

“Not that that’s a bad thing! But I mean, there’s one from last week that’s like—six hundred words.” That sounded like an exaggeration. “I didn’t need to know what the Winchesters had for dinner, you know?” Gabriel chuckled. “And then there’s one from a couple days ago that . . . Well, Castiel, it doesn’t actually have anything to do with the assignment. You just talk about getting a burger with one of the sons.”

Castiel’s fingers tightened around his phone. “It was a check-in,” he excused. “I was . . . helping. Emotionally.” His voice sounded small even to his own ears. His job wasn’t to be a therapist. At most, he was supposed to give out brochures and refer the patient and their family members to a counselor. Even if he were supposed to be a shoulder to cry on, he’d just lied to Gabriel. He and Dean hadn’t spoken about Mary or her departure throughout the meal at all.

“Okay, but you get how this looks, right?” Gabriel said.

Castiel swallowed, not knowing how to answer.

Gabriel’s sigh was tinny over the line. “Look, Castiel, I’ll level with you. If this were up to me, I’d let it go. You know that! But a few people up the chain have . . . raised some eyebrows.”

“Eyebrows,” Castiel intoned.

“Yeah.” There was a pause. And then, “I’m gonna have to send someone out.” Castiel’s stomach dropped. Quickly, Gabriel added, “Just to make sure everything’s kosher. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about! You’re a stellar Guide, Castiel. This probably isn’t how it looks. I tried to make your case to management but . . . you know how they are. Sticklers. Gotta make sure no one’s crossing any lines and all that.”

The memory of Dean’s kiss was prominent on Castiel’s lips, like a weight. He felt as if his thoughts were wading through water. He blurted out, “Who are you sending?”

“You know Uriel, right? He’d the closest to you right now. A couple days away.”

Castiel tried to breathe. He and Uriel had worked on a few cases together years ago. Uriel had always seemed to like Castiel. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as it sounded.

Still, Castiel’s nerves were fried. He felt as if he’d just been caught red handed and was awaiting trial.

As if reading his thoughts, Gabriel said, “Hey, don’t sweat it. You’ll be fine.” And then, with the smallest of doubts in his tone: “Right?”

Castiel gritted his teeth. “Right,” he lied.

“Goody,” Gabriel said. “So, guess I’ll talk to you in a few days.”

Castiel barely remembered saying goodbye. The next thing he knew, the line had gone dead next to his ear. He moved his arms down, looking at his phone’s home screen, the apps carefully organized into folders. He blinked down at it until the phone went black.

///

Early in the morning two days later, Castiel opened up his motel room’s door to Uriel’s grinning face. He never liked it when Uriel smiled. It made Castiel feel like he was the butt of some joke he wasn’t privy to.

“Hello, Uriel.”

“Castiel,” Uriel answered jovially, clapping Castiel on the shoulder in a way that nearly knocking him off balance. “I see management is making us suffer yet more filthy accommodations.” He stepped inside the room, which was currently a hurricane of pizza boxes, empty beer bottles, an unmade bed, and Castiel’s overturned suitcase.

Dean had surprised him by coming over the previous night to watch a movie—much to Castiel’s dismay. Castiel spent much of the evening sitting on the opposite side of the bed from Dean, putting as much space between them as possible and keeping his arms and ankles tensely crossed. A nervous undercurrent hummed beneath his skin the entire time. All he could think about was his last phone call with Gabriel and Uriel’s imminent arrival.

When Dean finally did leave, Castiel hadn’t calmed down very much. He didn’t know how to navigate saying goodnight to Dean, and the two of them ended up standing awkwardly in the doorway for a number of seconds before Dean rubbed at the back of his neck and said, “Well, ‘night.” Castiel replayed the entire night in his head, and eventually fell asleep to Dean’s scent on his pillow.

“I . . .” Castiel said unsurely, gaping as he turned to watch Uriel walk further into the room. His fist was still tight around the doorknob. Not knowing what else to say and hoping Uriel wouldn’t comment on the state of the room, he said, “Yes.”

Uriel turned, his smile now gone. “I understand we have an appointment with the Winchesters this morning?”

“Yes.” Castiel had just finished dressing. He was supposed to head over to the Winchesters’ house for a routine check-in before Sam and Dean left for work for the day. “I’m leaving now.”

“Excellent! No time to waste.” Uriel came forward again. He must have seen the hesitation that Castiel was trying to hide, because he outstretched his arms and placed his hands firmly on Castiel’s shoulders. “Castiel. Don’t worry. Everyone knows how seriously you take your profession. Maybe _too_ seriously. I’m sure there’s no cause for concern.”

Castiel thought about the night before. He thought about how badly he’d wanted to close the space between himself and Dean on the bed, about how much he’d wanted to kiss Dean goodnight in the doorway.

He forced a tight smile and nodded curtly. “Of course.”

Uriel flashed him another smile—smug and teasing—and withdrew his hands.

They drove to the Winchesters’ house together in relative silence, sometimes interrupted with small talk that only made Castiel more anxious. The sky was pewter gray with thick clouds no doubt eager to rain. The bleakly tinted air created a dim, desaturated hue on the dead leaves strewn on the Winchesters’ front lawn. The bark on the tree seemed blacker with rot than usual, the points of its branches dry and sharp. Both black cars were parked in the driveway.

Castiel got out of his car and reached into the backseat for his briefcase. He tried not to focus on Uriel standing in front of the yard, staring up at the house as if he was already inspecting the situation for his report.

Castiel resolved he would keep his hands and emotions to himself that day. He would remain level and professional. He was certain the Winchesters would understand—if they even noticed the change in his demeanor. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Perhaps he should have warned them about Uriel’s arrival. He knew he wasn’t supposed to, but it seemed the rules were forgotten where the Winchesters were concerned. He should have told Dean last night.

It was too late now.

He led Uriel to the front door before knocking. He kept his shoulders back and his spine straight, doing his best not to give away the roiling in his gut. His heart skipped a beat when he heard footsteps from within, following by the lock disengaging. The door swung open. Dean wasn’t exactly smiling, but his eyes were alight, the green of them stark and vivid against the overcast day.

But then, before Dean even spoke, his gaze latched on Uriel. His expression turned puzzled. “Who are you?” he asked, voice gruff and guarded. Castiel honestly didn’t know if that boded well for Uriel’s report or not.

“This is Uriel,” Castiel told him, keeping his voice neutral. “He’ll be evaluating Mrs. Winchester’s case to ensure everything is up to protocol. You won’t even know he’s here, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean knitted his brow together, forehead lining and mouth agape as his eyes flickered across Castiel’s face for answers. Castiel was sure Uriel couldn’t see him, so he allowed himself to lock eyes with Dean. He silently begged for Dean’s cooperation, and he hoped Dean understood the message.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Winchester,” Uriel cut in, holding his hand out.

Dean held Castiel’s gaze for another long moment before rattling his head. He licked his lips and focused on Uriel. “Uh, yeah,” he said, shaking Uriel’s hand. Castiel let out an infinitesimal sigh of relief. “Hey.”

“May we enter?” Uriel asked.

Dean still appeared distracted, but he stood to the side of the door and gestured them inside. “Yeah. Mom and Sam’re in the kitchen. Right down the hall.”

Uriel walked in first, following Dean’s instruction. Castiel followed after him, head ducked. He didn’t know why it was so difficult to look at Dean now that they were inside. He heard the front door close behind him, and then Dean’s, “Hey, Cas— _tiel_ ,” he had the good sense to add.

Castiel froze. Both he and Uriel looked around.

Dean gestured to the coat rack next to the door. “Wanna take a load off?” His tone was too casual, and Castiel felt like there was a rock lodged in his throat. He knew Dean wanted to speak with him privately, but this conversation would take much longer than they were given.

“I assure you, we won’t be long,” Uriel said.

Dean opened his mouth, apparently fishing for an excuse. “Yeah, well—you know. We keep it kind of hot in here. For Mom.”

Castiel resigned himself to not being about to get out of this. He looked around to Uriel and nodded. “I’ll be right there.”

Uriel paused, and Castiel tried to convince himself that hanging up his coat couldn’t possibly reflect poorly on his report. He watched Uriel head down the hall and into the kitchen.

For the first time all morning, Castiel felt as though he could breathe. Until, of course, he looked back at Dean.

Dean’s brows were popped, and he held his arms out akimbo. “Blink twice if you’re being held for ransom.”

Castiel dropped his shoulders tiredly. “Uriel’s a coworker. A good one. He’s been sent here to—”

“Evaluate Mom’s case?” Dean cut in like he didn’t understand why it was necessary.

“Evaluate _me_ ,” Castiel corrected. Dean appeared even more confused. Castiel didn’t know how to explain. It was best to be direct: “I received a call from one of my superiors a few days ago. He believes my daily reports have been . . . too emotional.”

“Emotional?” Dean repeated.

Castiel nodded. “He thinks I’m becoming attached to your family.” He was right. Castiel was far past attached.

Dean took a step forward, titling his head to the side to keep Castiel’s eyes. “Okay. And? Why’s that a bad thing?”

Of course, Dean wouldn’t understand. But there was no time to explain. Castiel placed his suitcase on the floor and took off his coat. He hung it on the rack, saying, “Dean, if Uriel’s evaluation isn’t in my favor, I could be taken—”

“Dean!” came Sam’s voice from the kitchen. He sounded panicked.

Immediately, Dean shot off down the hall. Castiel was running after him before he even realized his legs were moving. They hurried into the kitchen, where Mary, still in her pajamas and robe, was slumped in her chair at the table. Sam, his tie undone around his neck, was squatting beside her, holding her as if keeping her upright. He had a bunch of tissues in one hand, held up to Mary’s mouth. They were stained with blood. Castiel’s eyes widened when he realized more blood was on her lips.

“Mom!” Dean called. He ran past where Uriel was standing, dropping to his knees next to Sam. His hands were on Mary’s face, cradling her cheeks. She wheezed lowly, sounding pained. Her body moved limply. Her eyes fluttered but never fully opened.

Castiel’s feet were weights. He wanted to help, but the message wasn’t being sent to his limbs. He stood stalk still, eyes glued on the Winchesters. And a ridiculous thought struck him: he didn’t want Mary to die.

He tried to rationalize it. _Not here._ He tried to amend it. _Not like this_.

But it wasn’t true. He didn’t want Mary to die. Period. He didn’t want Sam and Dean to lose her. He didn’t want to lose any of them himself. That was all there was to it.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” he heard Sam say from somewhere far away. He was vaguely aware of Sam taking out his phone and holding it to his ear. He still couldn’t move.

Until Dean looked around, something unspeakable in his gaze. “Cas,” he said, the word coming out in a breath. Castiel felt sensation return. It started as a full body shudder, his skin bumping. Before he knew it, he was on the floor beside Dean, one hand on Mary’s shoulder, holding her as she swayed, the other blanketing Dean’s hand, clinging to him.

“I’m here, Dean,” he said.

Dean nodded rapidly, but he only seemed marginally comforted. Castiel felt a pressure inside his chest, like he’d be crushed if he continued to see Dean in so much pain. His grip on Dean tightened, and he pulled him against him. Dean leaned in easily. He buried his nose into Castiel’s chest. His breaths were loud against Castiel’s shirt.

Sam was giving the operator on the line their address, telling them to please hurry.

Belatedly, Castiel remembered Uriel’s presence. He felt a weighted stare on his back. He looked over guiltily, wondering if he could fix how this looked. But it was too late. He knew it was already over.

///

They’d been at the hospital for three hours. Mary’s condition was stable. Her hemoptysis had been caused by a ruptured blood vessel, which was far less severe than what any of them had expected. She would be kept for observation and was put on coagulants. Despite the doctor’s assurances, a stifling pressure had moved inside the room as Mary slept. They all knew it was only a matter of time.

Castiel wondered if she’d even last long enough for the hood to arrive in the mail.

He sat in a chair next to Dean’s at Mary’s bedside. The too-sterile scent of the hospital was clogging Castiel’s senses, making his skin dry and his eyes itch. It caused his thoughts to become foggy. The bitter taste of cafeteria coffee sat on the back of his throat. Under the green lights, he felt as if he were inside of a dream.

Dean’s hand was in his. Dean had hardly let go of it since they’d sat down, and Castiel allowed him to hold on for as long as he needed. He did his best to stay silent, mostly because he didn’t know what to say. He thought back to the stuffy halls and stale coffee of Anna’s hospital ward. He tried to recall what small comfort, what string of words he’d longed for. But his mind came up empty. There was nothing to say.

He just kept holding Dean’s hand and hoped it was enough.

Mary remained a still lump beneath the muted mint-colored blanket. Across the bed, Sam was dozing in a chair.

Castiel found himself watching Dean—barely blinking as he traced the lines of Dean’s profile. Dean was leaning forward, his gaze intent on Mary, as if he could will her health to return. Castiel wished he could. He wished Dean didn’t have to endure this—even if it meant Castiel never met him. As long as Dean was happy.

After some time, he became aware of someone watching him. The sensation slithered through the air and sent a shiver down his spine. He looked toward the door, where Uriel was standing. Uriel lingered momentarily before turning and disappearing out of the threshold. Castiel knew he wanted him to follow.

He breathed in, trying to muster his courage but only inhaling more fogged-over thoughts and sour air. But he knew he couldn’t avoid this any longer. It was time.

He squeezed Dean’s hand, hoping it wasn’t for the last time. “I’ll . . . get more coffee,” he lied, not wishing to add to Dean’s anxieties.

Dean grunted an answer that Castiel assumed meant _okay_. Castiel stood up, reluctantly letting his hand slide out of Dean’s. Without the warmth, he felt a chill on his skin. He hovered there for another moment, knowing everything would be different when he saw Dean again. He would only be there to deliver more bad news. Castiel wanted just one single moment more before that happened.

Dean kept staring at his mother.

Castiel left the room, shoulders slumped with dejection as he swiftly turned down the hall in the direction where Uriel had headed. Uriel was sitting on a chair outside another patient’s room. Castiel fisted his hands at his sides and made for him, feeling as if he were walking toward the gallows.

When he got closer, Uriel stood up. All he said, voice reproving, was, “Castiel.”

Castiel felt his bravado leave him. He looked down at the floor. “I assume you’ll report this back to the home office.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Uriel told him, but at least he sounded sorry about it. Maybe even a little part of Castiel understood. “You know it’s not our place to get involved in the patients’ personal lives.”

Castiel jutted out his jaw, biting down. “I know.”

“Do you?” Uriel urged. “Honestly, I’m surprised, Castiel. I never thought you, out of anyone . . .”

Castiel glanced up, letting Uriel’s judgement hang in the air.

Uriel was considering him. “It’s the son, isn’t it? Dean?”

Castiel bit down harder. He didn’t really have to answer.

Uriel scoffed. “You must know where this path leads.”

Maybe he was right. Castiel had been foolish. He’d completely lost sight of what his job was, and what would happen after his job was finished. But—even know, standing in the corridor of a hospital—a small part of him still thought this time would be different. Dean was different.

“I’m recommending that you’re taken off Mary Winchester’s case,” Uriel told him. Castiel let that wash over him. It wasn’t a surprise, but hearing the confirmation caused the air to quake around him. He nodded. “It’s for the best, Castiel,” Uriel then said. Castiel wasn’t so certain he agreed.

He didn’t argue.

Uriel waited, like he expected an argument. But Castiel wouldn’t put the Winchesters in the middle of this, not with everything else going on. They’d receive another Guide. The transition would be painless for them. They could focus on Mary’s arrangements. They didn’t need Castiel causing any more disturbances. So, if this was the decision, Castiel would obey.

When that was clear, Uriel let out a breath but didn’t offer an apology. He left Castiel in the hallway, among the distant rush of footsteps, the steadily beeping monitors, and the indistinguishable voice sounding over the speakers.

///

There was a knock at the motel room door—pounding and incessant and angry.

Castiel sighed at the toiletry bag in his hands. He looked down at the open suitcase on his bed, his clothes folded in neat squares inside. Part of him had hoped he’d be gone before the Winchesters got the call that he was taken off their case. He knew that was cowardly of him, but he didn’t think he could handle saying goodbye. Because this was different than the other goodbyes. Mary was still alive.

It was different from the others, anyway.

“Cas, I know you’re in there! Open the damn door!” Dean’s growling voice came through, muffled by the metal door.

Castiel accepted his fate. He tossed his toiletries into his luggage and went to the door, quickly unlocking it. Steeling himself, he ripped the door open. Dean still had one fist raised like he was about to assault the door again. When he realized Castiel was there, he let his arm fall and glared.

No matter how cowardly, Castiel knew he was right in trying to leave. Now that Dean was in front him, he wasn’t certain he would ever want to go. The thought of it alone left him hollow.

And that wasn’t something he could allow. He’d been stupid to forget that.

“What?” Castiel asked. He didn’t wait for an answer before turning around and heading back into the room.

“Don’t _what_ me,” Dean said, stomping after him. “You know _what_. The call? Some douchebag named Gabriel told Sam you’re leaving.” He spread out his arms akimbo, a slight bend to his knees. “What the hell, Cas?”

Castiel’s back was to him, but by some sixth sense, he was all too aware of Dean’s every movement—of the hurt in his eyes that he was desperately trying to shield.

“They’ve taken me off your mother’s case, Dean. There’s nothing I can do,” he said as he zipped up his luggage. He didn’t know how to busy himself now that he was done packing. He had to find something, because the alternative would be looking at Dean—and he couldn’t do that.

“Bullshit there isn’t!” Dean argued, because of course he would. It wasn’t in Dean to give up. “We can fight this, Cas. Come on! Would you look at me, damn it?” He grabbed Castiel’s shoulder and wheeled him around suddenly. Castiel didn’t even fight it. He let Dean manhandle him.

“We don’t want some soulless asshole taking over. Mom’s comfortable with you. You know her—”

“That’s the problem,” Castiel told him point blank. There was no good in sugarcoating it. Dean needed to understand why it would be unprofessional for Castiel to carry on as Mary’s Departure Guide. “I was too involved, too attached to your family.” He forced himself to meet Dean’s eyes. “To you.”

Dean blinked, and Castiel didn’t know whether he was denying it or blaming himself. He said, “So, why’s that such a bad thing?”

Castiel didn’t have an answer for that. He’d thought he understood, but then he met Dean. Suddenly, he didn’t know why caring for the patients and their families was wrong. Wasn’t that the whole point? Didn’t he sign up for this job because he didn’t want people to suffer? Because he wanted to help them? Wasn’t that the same thing as caring?

Dean must have known he’d plucked a cord, because he dipped his head to fish for Castiel’s eyes, and he stepped in closer. “Cas?” He licked his lips. “You can’t leave, alright? I’m not letting you. They’re not just taking you away and sending in somebody else. I’ll tell the new guy to go fuck himself.”

Castiel almost laughed. “Dean, you told _me_ to go fuck myself.”

“Yes, I did.” Dean lifted his chin. “And you stayed. You think someone else’ll stick around to put up with me? I’m an asshole. And Sam and Mom ain’t too pleasant, either.”

Castiel looked at him levelly. “That’s not true.” The Winchesters had been the best family he’d ever been assigned to.

“Whatever. Point is: we don’t want somebody else.”

But that didn’t matter. Castiel didn’t want to leave them, but none of it was his decision. He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Dean. I’m sorry. If you reject your next Guide, the organization will withdraw your mother’s application. She’ll be on her own.”

Dean shrugged, and laughed a little nervously, in that way people do when they’re sad. “So? Dying’s the easy part, right?”

Castiel couldn’t advise that Dean or Sam help their mother to die without the supervision of a Departure Guide. If something went wrong, they could go to jail, and Mary could put herself in a worse position. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time a person took their own life when their application was rejected. Castiel just didn’t want the Winchesters to have to go through that. Not alone.

“But we’d rather it if you were there,” Dean told him earnestly, and Castiel sucked in a breath. It was the first time Dean had expressed anything remotely close to gratitude for Castiel’s role in all this. He’d accepted Mary’s decision, and he even wanted Castiel there to aid her. And now that was all going to be for nothing.

“Dean . . .”

“Cas, we need you,” Dean interrupted. He searched Castiel’s gaze, and as much as Castiel wanted to, he couldn’t look away. Something in Dean’s eyes shifted. It was imploring and vulnerable and desperate. He said, “I need you.”

Castiel didn’t think. He leaned in and filled the space between them, his lips pressing gently to Dean’s. Dean froze up for a moment, and for a second Castiel thought he’d done something wrong; but then Dean parted his lips and kissed back.

His arm came up and hooked around Castiel’s waist to pull him in closer. Castiel stumbled forward at the unexpectedness of it, his palms instinctually coming up to brace himself. They landed on Dean’s chest, and their bodies pressed together. Dean deepened the kiss by licking at the seam of Castiel’s mouth. Castiel opened up to him easily, allowing for the slow roll of Dean’s tongue against his own.

Keeping one hand on Dean’s chest, he rubbed small circles with the heel of his palm on the front of Dean’s shirt, and he brought the other up to cup around Dean’s neck. Dean placed his other hand on Castiel’s hip, and his thumb smoothed gentle lines on the bone through the fabric of Castiel’s shirt. Castiel heard a soft noise lift up from the back of his own throat, and he decided to let himself have this.

What could be the harm of it? If he were truly being taken off Mary’s case, there was no reason to worry about getting too close to the Winchesters. Selfishly, he thought this whole situation was freeing. He could have Dean now, at least for the night; and then he would go back to Boston in the morning and never come back to Lawrence, but he could pretend that wasn’t about to happen. It wasn’t real yet. The only things that were real were the scrape of Dean’s stubble and the heat of his hands on Castiel’s body.

When the kiss broke, they stayed close, sharing the air between them in heavy exhales and deep, panting inhales. Each one sent a puff of hot air out of Dean’s lung and into Castiel’s. Dean’s mouth and chin were slick and red, and Castiel bit down on his lower lip as he realized he was the reason for that. Beneath Castiel’s palm, Dean’s heart was racing, and Castiel almost wanted to take Dean by the wrist and place his hand over Castiel’s heart to show him that he was feeling the same.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered between them, his voice rough already. He wanted to be with Dean, to pretend he could stay there with him for a week, a month, a year—for good. And he wanted to feel Dean’s mouth on him, to have their bodies move together, to touch Dean everywhere like he’d imagined.

He pressed another kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth, and Dean groaned and leaned into it.

“Dean,” he said again, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see it when Dean said no.

Dean didn’t respond verbally, but he nudged Castiel’s nose with his own and fit their lips together again. Castiel kissed back instantly, relishing it. Dean’s hands came up and tugged at the bottom of Castiel’s shirt, and they parted momentarily to lift it over his head. When it was on the floor, Dean took off his jacket, his plaid shirt going with it.

Castiel trailed away from his lips, kissing Dean’s chin and down his throat. He listened to Dean’s choppy breathing as he went, mouthing at his Adam’s apple when Dean titled his head back to give him better access. Dean made a low moaning sound, and Castiel felt the vibrations from it on his lips. He realized, somewhere along the line, Dean had managed to undo his pants, and now Dean’s hands were on his ass, groping and kneading and shoving their hips together. Castiel felt himself filling out against the warm lines and planes of Dean’s body, and he wanted more.

He slipped his thigh between Dean’s legs and moved it up and down, and found Dean was already half-hard in his jeans. Dean jerked his hips, hissing a little. Castiel pressed himself against Dean’s hip, and tried hard not to hump against him like some kind of high schooler losing his virginity, but it was difficult to do. He wanted so badly to snap his hips against Dean’s body, to lose himself in the feeling of it as he breathed in Dean’s scent. Everything about Dean was intoxicating, and Castiel was hopeless in the face of it.

Dean dipped his head against Castiel’s shoulder, shuddering slightly as he leaned into Castiel moving against him. His fingers were still and digging into Castiel’s ass now. And then he must have rallied himself, because he let out a kind of grunting sound and pushed Castiel backward toward the bed. Castiel let himself be led, but he grasped Dean by the back of the neck again and pulled him in so they could continue to kiss.

When the back of his knees hit the mattress, he broke the kiss, and he sat down on the edge of the bed while catching his breath. Dean took the opportunity to take his t-shirt off, revealing his firm chest and the slight softness of his belly. Castiel felt himself grinning at the sight of it. Dean had a tattoo on his chest, a strange five-point star in a circle, and Castiel thought he saw something similar in the Winchester house. He wanted to ask him what it meant, but now wasn’t the time.

He leaned in and kissed Dean’s stomach, circling his bellybutton and lining the skin above the hem of his jeans with his tongue. Dean’s stomach rose and fell with panting breaths, and his hands were carding through Castiel’s hair, massaging his scalp.

“Fuck, Cas, you gotta be the most random person I ever slept with,” Dean said.

Castiel laughed against his skin. He dug his nose into Dean’s side, and pressed one last kiss on the dusting of freckles there before withdrawing. “Not to mention the most ill advised,” he said, frowning now as he looked up to meet Dean’s eyes. There was hardly any green left; his pupils swallowed it all up. “I am a serial killer, after all.”

Dean barked out a laugh. “Yeah, you are,” he teased as he leaned down. Castiel accepted another kiss from him, smiling into it as Dean unbuttoned the front of his shirt. Dean stepped out of his boots, and Castiel thought it was a good time to rid himself of his shoes, too. He toed them off, depositing them on the faded carpet. He put his hands on Dean’s cheeks and pulled him on top of him as he slowly laid back. Dean let himself be guided, bracing himself with him arms on either side of Castiel’s body as he crawled onto the bed.

Once he was situated straddling Castiel’s lap, Castiel reached between them and undid the fly of Dean’s jeans. He slid his hand down the front, beneath Dean’s cotton boxers, and brushed his fingers on Dean’s dick. Dean shivered and broke the kiss. He gasped out, “Cas—”

Castiel wrapped his hand around Dean, gentle and teasing, and stroked him. He watched, enraptured, as Dean’s eyes slid closed and his lips parted distractedly. Dean’s throat rippled every time he swallowed hard, and a line formed between his eyebrows as he concentrated. He was filling out quickly in Castiel’s fist, and it didn’t take long for him to let out a frustrated sound and buck into the touch.

“C’mon, man,” he whined, and might have been the most arousing thing he’d done so far. Castiel withdrew his hand, mostly just to hear Dean whine again, and ran it up Dean’s bare chest. When Dean’s eyes opened again, they locked onto his right away, as if their gazes were attracted by some magnetic pull. Like a compass pointing north.

Dean’s expression broke out into a blinding smile—beautiful and radiant, his entire self shining with it. Castiel didn’t know why it made him bashful, but he was suddenly shy as he tried to return the smile. He looked at Dean’s flushed pink chest, at his broad shoulders and smattering of freckles, at the place where Dean was sitting on him. This must have been what attachment felt like. This must have been what it felt like to want to dig your claws into something and never let it go.

This must have been what it felt like to want to stay.

It was a swell of emotion, being pulled under by a cresting wave, uncomfortable with pressure but warm and thrilling. He thought he’d never stop feeling the absence of it now that he’d experienced it.

Dean dipped down and kissed the bend of Castiel’s shoulder, and then his clavicle. He mouthed at Castiel’s nipples and down the center of his chest. Castiel laid back for the moment and just enjoyed it. He breathed, his hands holding Dean’s head as he continued his ministrations.

When Dean got to Castiel’s stomach, he placed his open palms on Castiel’s sides. He slowly palmed off his pants, and Castiel raised his body off the bed to make it easier. Once they were around his ankles, he kicked them off the rest of the way, losing them to the floor with all his other clothes.

Dean’s lips were leaving hot trails of saliva on the inside of Castiel’s thighs; and Castiel nearly arched up when Dean mouthed at his dick through his boxers. A loud “ah” sound bounced back to him before he’d even realized he emitted it, and Dean continued on until Castiel was aching and circling his hips slowly.

“ _Dean_ ,” he breathed out, and it was hard to do because his chest was heaving and his mouth was dry and the word kept getting stuck in his throat. His fingers were grasping the blankets, and he would much rather be holding onto Dean’s shoulders.

After Dean was done teasing him, he climbed back up Castiel’s body and laid more sweet kisses onto him. Castiel tickled the tips of his fingers up and down Dean’s spine, and then he kicked his leg around Dean and flipped them.

He hovered close to Dean’s mouth, lips brushing as he said, “I think it’s time we were naked now.”

Dean let out a hum of agreement. “Be my guest,” he said, popping both brows. He then lifted his hips and shimmied himself out of his jeans and boxers, and Castiel laid flat and pulled his underwear off, too. And then there was nothing between them, every inch of their skin coming together. They slotted their hips together, and Castiel felt Dean’s erection slide against his own as they circled into each other.

He wanted to touch Dean. He wanted to bring him pleasure instead of pain—for once.

He placed his knees on each side of Dean legs and sat up. Dean blinked up at him, eyes wide and hair askew against the bed, and he was acting like the sight before him was the best thing he’d ever seen. Castiel knew for a fact that was true on his own part. Dean was beautiful. He was sturdy and strong and every inch of him was as lovely and imperfectly exquisite as he was on the inside.

Castiel scooted himself a little further up Dean’s body and lined up their dicks. He wrapped his hand around both of them, and Dean gave a sort of strangled sound before placing one of his large hands over Castiel’s. They moved as one, holding themselves together in their fists as they jerked each other.

Castiel’s lips were starting to chap as he sucked air into his open mouth. He was hot from exertion, and his vision felt fuzzy around the edges, narrowing down to Dean writhing beneath him. He was quickly losing his composure. He braced himself by putting his free hand on Dean’s ribs and leaning into it, locking his elbow to keep himself upright.

Dean was letting out filthy sounds, his fingers tightening around Castiel’s as they worked each other. His other hand was squeezing the top of Castiel’s thigh.

Castiel moved his hips, fucking himself in and out of their hands. Dean was bucking up into them, and his expression was strained with intense focus. Castiel wanted to kiss the lines of his face, so he leaned down, stretching his spine uncomfortably, but it was worth it. He kissed Dean’s forehead, between his brows, under his eyes, the tip of his nose. He got to his mouth and Dean kissed him back enthusiastically, both of them breathing hard between kisses.

Deep in his gut, Castiel felt his muscles tightening. The small of his back was heating up with an internal fire, and his toes were curling. Beneath him, he could feel Dean’s thrusts becoming more and more erratic.

“Fuck, Cas. I’m gonna—Damn it,” Dean cursed and moaned.

Castiel wanted release, but he also didn’t want this end because Dean moving beneath him was heaven. If there were any justice in the universe—this was heaven.

He was breathing out Dean’s name again and again. His orgasm was building up inside of him, rising higher and higher as everything in him tensed up. He jerked them again, harder now, and let he let out a loud, short sound, and he felt his body light up.

Dean said his name, his fists tightening, digging into Castiel’s skin. And then he locked up, too; and Castiel’s hand was suddenly warm and sticky, and he could feel it on his chest, too, but he didn’t care. Because Dean’s mouth was parted in a silent shout and his eyes were skewed shut and he looked so beautiful and sexed out and there was come on his stomach that Castiel didn’t know whether it was Dean’s or his own.

They stroked each other through the final waves of their orgasms, and then they stilled. And caught their breath.

Castiel’s body was limp, boneless. He wanted to stay like that forever, no matter how uncomfortable the film of sweat layering his body was.

Eventually, he became too exhausted to keep himself upright. He slid off Dean and laid down at his side, and he grinned up at the ugly stucco ceiling. Dean’s breathing still hadn’t evened out when he let out a chuckle. The laugh was infectious, and Castiel didn’t even know what the joke was.

Perhaps all of it. His entire life.

He couldn’t remember the last time he was this happy.

He rolled onto his side and sidled up against Dean’s ribs.

“You’re sticky,” Dean complained with a frown, but his arm underneath Castiel came up to wrap around his back.

“So are you,” Castiel said, and buried his nose into the dip of Dean’s shoulder.

“Mm. You got a point.”

Castiel knew they should clean up, but he didn’t want to stop holding Dean. He thought, if they got out of bed, Dean would want to leave. More than anything, he wanted Dean to stay.

Or, no. That wasn’t strictly true. More than anything, he wanted himself to stay.

“Here,” he said, and lifted up the corner of the sheet beneath the comforter. They were still facing the wrong way on the bed, their legs hanging off the side at their knees. The linens had gotten messed up, and one corner of the sheet had been pulled out, probably when Castiel was fisting at them. They were laying down on the comforter, and Castiel remembered his mother telling him that he should never do that because hotels didn’t wash them and they were full of germs. He was never certain how much he believed that, but he made it rule not to use them, just in case. But, at the moment, he didn’t care.

He wiped Dean’s stomach off with the sheet. It wasn’t perfect, and it smeared the come around more than anything else, but it would have to do.

“Oh, yeah, that’ll work,” Dean said sarcastically before Castiel moved on to wipe himself down.

“It’s good enough.”

Dean hummed again, seeming apathetic about the situation. He leaned in and pecked Castiel’s lips, smiling into it. When they parted, Castiel searched his face, starstruck.

Soon, Dean’s smile faded, his expression shifting into something raw and melancholy. Castiel felt his stomach sour where there was once sweet bliss.

“Dean?”

A muscle in Dean’s jaw jumped as he tensed it. He stared at Castiel hard, silent for a long time, as if he was deciding what to say. Castiel felt himself panicking, wondering if Dean considered this a huge mistake.

But then Dean said, “You better stay here, you understand?”

Castiel felt his expression slacken as it dawned on him what Dean had meant.

“Don’t you let them take you away. Come on, Cas. Fight ‘em with me.”

It was daunting. Castiel didn’t know if they could win. All he knew was this: he couldn’t go back to Boston, and he couldn’t keep traveling the country, separating himself from everyone he met, everyone he was supposed to be helping, and then return to a vacant apartment. He couldn’t do that anymore. Not since Dean. He didn’t want to.

He wanted to stay. Maybe he would be taken off Mary’s case. Maybe he’d even be fired. It didn’t really matter. He wasn’t leaving. He was staying with the Winchesters, with Dean. He would fight for them, with them. He would remain at Dean’s side.

“Yes,” Castiel told him. “Dean, I promise you, I’ll stay for as long as you need me.”

A week. A month. A year.

For good.

Dean’s smile wasn’t as bright that time, but it was genuine. “Thanks, Cas,” he said.

Castiel kissed him again.


	4. Chapter 4

The phone line trilled, and for a heart-stopping moment, Castiel was sure Gabriel wouldn’t answer.

And maybe that would be for the best, he thought in a moment of weakness.

Then, he brought his gaze up from where the phone was situated on the coffee table of the Winchesters’ living room. He was sitting in the chair, leaning forward. Dean was perched on the arm of the chair, his side brushing up against Castiel’s every time one of them moved. Mary and Sam were across from them on the couch.

As the phone continued to ring, he watched the way Mary worried at her bottom lip and the way Sam ran his hand through his hair. Under his breath, Dean was muttering, “C’mon, c’mon, answer . . .”

It occurred to him then that the Winchesters genuinely wanted him to stay. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information. But he knew he’d regret it if he backed down now. He’d promised Dean he would fight. He wasn’t about to break that promise.

However, it was late. The sun had set an hour ago, which meant it was even later in New York, where Gabriel lived. They’d spent too much time planning what they wanted to say. Castiel thought they might have missed their opportunity for the night. Maybe it would be best to call back with a fresh mind in the morning.

He was just about to suggest that when the ringing stopped. Gabriel’s voice came over the line: “Hey there, Castiel. You on your way back to Boston yet?”

Castiel felt how wide his eyes had gotten. A cold fist was clamped around his intestines, telling him this was a bad idea. He shot a quick look at Dean, as if asking him what to do. Dean nodded sternly. Castiel managed to garner some strength from it.

“No,” he said, turning back to the phone. “I’m still in Lawrence. I’m with the Winchesters now.”

There was a long pause—long enough that Castiel thought the call had dropped. And then, “Castiel . . . am I on speaker phone?”

“Damn right, you are!” Dean called out before Castiel could answer. His tone was hostile; and, when he’d asked Castiel to fight, Castiel didn’t think he’d meant it so literally.

“Dean,” he gritted out, low enough for Gabriel to not hear. The last thing they needed was an argument.

“Whoa-ho!” Gabriel exclaimed. “Okay, then. Who’s the rude guy?”

Across the table, Sam shot Dean a frustrated look. At least one of them knew they wouldn’t get very far with hostility.

“Hi, Mr.—um—Gabriel,” Mary said, much more tactfully than her son. “This is Mary Winchester. Both of my boys are here, too.”

There was an exhale over the line, like he didn’t much appreciate being ambushed. “Hi, Ms. Winchester.”

“Hi,” Mary said again before getting down to business. “Look, Castiel told us you took him off my case. We’re calling because we’re hoping you’ll change your mind.”

“Ms. Winchester, I understand. Really, I do. But it’s not up to me,” Gabriel said, giving what Castiel might be the standard response if this were a standard problem.

“Oh, that’s bullshit! What kinda company line is that?” Dean yelled.

Castiel wondered if they should banish him to another room. “Dean!” he said again, not really caring if Gabriel heard him that time. In truth, part of him thought it wouldn’t matter. This was a fool’s hope.

At the same time that Castiel scolded Dean, Sam let out an aborted sound of protest. He gave his brother another warning glare before leaning in closer over the phone. “Gabriel, hi. Sam Winchester. Excuse my brother.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Quick question: if we request that Castiel stay on as my mom’s Guide, is there any chance that’ll get her case thrown out?”

Castiel hadn’t really thought of that. He wouldn’t want to ruin Mary’s chances. He’d rather leave.

But Gabriel sighed and said, “No. Management is in the process of selecting another Guide for you.”

“Okay,” Sam said thoughtfully, “well, tell them to stop. Because we don’t want another one. We’re comfortable with Cas. Mom’s comfortable with him. I mean, doesn’t that count for anything?”

Another long pause filled the static air. Castiel stared down at the phone, watching the seconds of the call time tick upward. With each passing number, his throat constricted more and more.

Gabriel sighed again after a long time. “Castiel, can you take me off speaker for a sec?”

Castiel felt everyone’s eyes weighing on him. He glanced at them in turn, his gaze snagging on Dean for a moment longer than he’d intended. He reached forward, tapped the speaker icon, and brought his phone to his ear. “Hello?”

Gabriel launched right into it: “You know bringing the whole family in on this to gang up on me isn’t helping your case, right?”

Castiel dropped his shoulders. He rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah, maybe,” he allowed.

“I know you thought they could vouch for you,” Gabriel told him, “but I’m not really sure what to do here. You’ve put me in kinda a tough spot. And, honestly, Castiel? I’m not sure it’s healthy for _you_ to get this attached to one of the patients.”

Castiel’s gut reaction was to argue. He tried to quell it, to marshal his thoughts into something more organized. When he opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure if what he said would sway Gabriel’s decision in his favor or get him fired. Still, he said, “All due respect, but I disagree.”

Next to him, Dean muttered, “All due respect, but he can shove it up his ass.”

Castiel pinched his lips and glowered at him, silently telling him to shut up. Dean sulked.

“We’re here to give people options when they’re at their most vulnerable. We’re supposed to guide them, and they’re supposed to trust us. How can we do that if they feel no connection toward us?” he said. “I don’t see this as a weakness, Gabriel. I . . .” Part of him couldn’t believe he was saying this. So much had changed in the course of a few weeks. “I believe this is a strength.”

The line went quiet again, but that time, Castiel could almost hear Gabriel thinking. All three of the Winchesters were staring at him in anticipation. Castiel’s stomach was in knots.

He wasn’t any more relieved when Gabriel said, “Okay, put me back on speaker.”

Castiel didn’t stop to question it. He placed the phone back down and did as he was told. “Everyone can hear you.”

A tinny gust of breath came from the other end of the line. Gabriel said, “Alright, you’re sure you all really want this?”

Each of the Winchesters answered in the affirmative, their responses just a fraction out of sync with each other’s. Sam was nodding his head.

“Well, like I said, it’s not my decision,” Gabriel told them.

Perhaps Castiel was getting ahead of himself, but he thought he heard some kind of reluctant acquiescence in Gabriel’s tone. “If I have to take this to your superiors, I will—” he began, hoping to be of help.

Gabriel cut him off: “Whoa, no! No way. You’re way too close to this. If anyone can make a case for you, it’s me.”

Hope sparked in Castiel’s chest at the words. It was in Mary’s voice, too, when she asked, “So, you’ll do it? He can stay?”

“I’ll put in a request,” Gabriel corrected. “And I’m gonna draft up a document to put this all in writing. I’ll email it over. Just fax the signed version back.”

Sam sat up a little straighter. “Yeah. Yeah, anything.”

Castiel barely heard it, because at the same moment, Dean had hooked his arm into Castiel’s. He slid their hands together, lacing their fingers. Castiel turned his face to look at him, awestruck. Dean didn’t look back. He kept his eyes forward on the phone like he was in a staring contest with it.

“And it couldn’t hurt to send over a letter from the three of you saying why you want Castiel to stay on,” Gabriel advised. “Not sure what good it’ll do, but it can’t hurt.” He didn’t have to do that—give them pointers. Castiel was grateful. He squeezed Dean’s hand back.

“You got it,” Sam said, his eyes moving from side to side in thought as if he was already mentally drafting up the letter.

“Get it all to me by tomorrow night and I’ll send it up the ladder. But no promises.”

But that didn’t matter. The simple possibility of it was enough to break the tension in Castiel’s chest. Or maybe that was Dean’s touch.

Castiel noticed Mary had spotted them. She remained quiet, but her eyes kept flickering to their conjoined hands. Castiel ducked his head as to not meet her eyes, the back of his neck heating up in embarrassment. He cleared his throat and tried to focus on the task at hand.

“But, Castiel, until we know for sure, you’ll still off the case,” Gabriel made clear. “That means I’m gonna have to freeze your expenses. So, until we know what’s what—the hotel, the meals, everything—it’s on your dime, got it?”

Panic spiked in Castiel’s chest. He’d never exactly been rich. He wasn’t certain he could afford to pay for everything for very long. But he didn’t anticipate the decision taking more than a few days. Maybe he could swing it.

“I understand,” he said. “Thank you, Gabriel.”

When the call ended, Dean drew his hand away. Castiel tried not to feel mournful for that. With any luck, there would be more of that in the future.

“Cas, are you gonna be okay paying for that stuff on your own?” Sam asked once Castiel’s phone was back in his pocket.

He thinned his lips, deciding not to worry them unnecessarily. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” Dean asked, eyeing him skeptically.

“You shouldn’t have to,” Mary said at the same time. Then, her eyes lit up with an idea. “Hey, why don’t you stay with us until we hear back?”

Castiel opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. He hadn’t been expecting that. It was probably a bad idea. If the company found out about it, he certainly wouldn’t be able to stay on Mary’s case. But, he had to admit, it would help him curb his spending.

“Yeah, hey!” Dean said, all smiles. He joked, “It’ll be like a sleepover. We can braid Sam’s hair.”

Sam let out a huff of laughter, though he clearly tried to hide it. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious,” Mary went on. “What d’you say, Castiel? You can stay as long as you need. The couch is yours.” Her eyes flashed to Dean over Castiel’s shoulder. She obviously meant to be subtle when she finished, “or whatever,” but even Castiel knew she’d failed miserably.

Castiel tried to talk to himself out of it. They were likely just being polite, anyway. He attempted to give them an out: “I couldn’t impose.”

“You’re not,” Sam told him sincerely. “We mean it, Cas. You didn’t abandon us, so—we’re not gonna abandon you.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, and there was a certain force behind his voice. Some stubbornness, some weighty determination. “You’re family now, Cas.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say to that, either. He certainly didn’t know what to feel. There was a pressure in his chest. It crept up his throat, swelled inside his head until everything else faded away. It was warm, in a way—serene. Peaceful. All fear was swept away in its wake.

He imagined this is what it felt like: dying.

Or maybe it was like coming back to life.

He looked down at his hands on his lap. “Thank you,” was all he could say. He heard how wet his own voice sounded.

With everything settled, the Winchesters got up and began the process of getting ready for bed. Castiel went back to the motel to pack up his bag and check out of his room. When he returned, a pillow, a bed sheet, and a quilt were folded on the couch for him.

It was strange, bidding the Winchesters goodnight and staying under the same roof, to see Dean’s bare legs beneath his pajamas of a t-shirt and boxers, to know that Sam poured himself a glass of water to keep by his bed at night. It had been so long since Castiel had occupied the same space as anyone else. It seemed so foreign to him now.

So, too, did the clicking of the pipes in the walls as the heat kicked on in the absence of all sound. The light from the streetlamps streamed through the window, casting the stretching shadow of the dying tree in the front yard on the floor. The room seemed different in the darkness, in the quiet.

He didn’t know how long he spent staring up at the ceiling before he heard footsteps on the stairs.

Curious, Castiel sat up, his blankets falling to his lap, and looked over the back of the couch to the stairwell. In the darkness, he could only make out a shadow, no features or a face, but he knew the shape of it well enough. Dean paused on the stairs, the wood beneath him creaking as he settled.

“Hey,” he whispered. It sounded overly loud.

Castiel blinked, his eyes adjusting. “Hi.”

“You’re still awake,” Dean said.

Castiel thought that seemed rather obvious. “Apparently.”

He heard Dean sigh, not appreciating the joke. He walked down the rest of the way and came into the living room, his face now illuminated by the low light. “Yeah, I can’t sleep, either.”

Castiel cast his gaze down at his blanket-clad lap. He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep very much until he knew his fate. “Yeah,” he said simply.

Dean hovered there for a while, and Castiel awkwardly fished for something to say. He settled on, “Was there something you needed?”

“Huh? Oh. No, I—uh. It’s a cold night. I wanted to see if you needed any more blankets.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Castiel’s mouth at the sentiment. “I’m fine,” he said.

“Good,” Dean answered, but it sounded like he wanted to say more. He scanned the room for a long couple of seconds until his eyes landed on the television. “Hey, if you can’t sleep—wanna . . . I dunno, watch some TV until we get tired?”

Castiel didn’t know how to say he’d do anything Dean asked of him. He simply nodded.

Dean seemed relieved by that for some reason. He swiped the remote off the coffee table and settled in on the couch. Castiel swung his feet off the cushions to give him room.

The TV burst on, breaking the darkness and the quiet with a sudden onslaught of flashing blue light and staticky noise. Dean cursed at the volume and hastily turned it lower—much lower than it would have been in the daylight hours. He flipped through infomercials and late-night talk shows, eventually landing on a black and white cowboy movie on some B-rated cable channel.

Castiel didn’t care much about what they watched. He was too focused on the heat coming off of Dean’s skin in the space between them. It didn’t take long for his eyes to start drooping, but he fought to stay awake. However, when Dean cleared his throat and stretched his arm over the back of the couch where Castiel was sitting, Castiel found himself leaning in closer to his side.

He didn’t remember drifting off.

He woke some time before dawn to the sound of a garbage truck rattling down the street. The TV was off. The blanket was spread over his shoulders, a comforting weight on his chest. Dean was still there, his head tipped to the side, fast asleep.

Castiel stayed tucked against him and closed his eyes again.

///

Three days went by and Castiel still hadn’t heard back from Gabriel. No one spoke of it. In fact, everyone seemed to do everything in their power to avoid the topic. They went on with their days as normal, with their standard routines, and Castiel did all he could to not get in the way. He felt he was even failing at that. He offered his help with cleaning up after dinner, with helping Mary, even with going grocery shopping—just to get out of the house for a time.

He was always met with, “No, don’t worry about it.” Or, “You’re a guest here.” Or, “It’ll just be easier if I do it.”

He hadn’t felt this useless since Anna died. All it did was lend to his anxiety.

He knew the Winchesters felt it, too. He’d walked in on the brothers whispering to one another one night in the kitchen, discussing what they were going to do if Castiel was taken off the case. They pretended they hadn’t been speaking at all when Castiel joined them.

There was unease in their eyes when they looked at him—and he knew it wasn’t solely his fault. Every day, Mary’s health continued to decline. But it felt like his fault nonetheless.

However, on that third day, all concerns about Gabriel’s inevitable phone call were pushed to the side. UPS had arrived that morning to drop off two large boxes onto the doorstep. When Dean dragged them inside, Castiel knew what they were before they were opened.

The materials for Mary’s departure had arrived. Under normal circumstances, all that was left to do was pick a date.

Dinner that night was a silent affair. No one looked at Castiel directly for the rest of the day.

He wondered what the hell was taking Gabriel so long.

///

Castiel had been in Kansas for three months altogether. He realized that upon waking up one morning to find a light dusting of snow collecting on the windowsill outside Dean’s bedroom. Granted, this must have been a one-off, because it was still much too early for snow. It was only early November, after all. But, when he’d arrived for Mildred’s case, it had been late summer, and all the leaves were still bright and vibrant on the trees. He’d been away from east coast for much longer than he’d anticipated.

Somehow, it didn’t bother him, especially when he heard the sheets rustle behind him and felt Dean’s strong arms wrap around his torso. Dean kissed the back of his neck with a soft, dry press of lips.

“Good morning,” Castiel said, tilting his head slightly to give Dean more access. Dean hummed as he trailed more kisses on Castiel’s skin. He shifted slightly, aligning himself closer against Castiel’s body, and Castiel felt the press of Dean’s erection on the back of his thigh.

“Oh,” he said again, pleasantly surprised, “Good morning.”

Dean rumbled. “Think you can help me out with that?”

Castiel turned his head to look up at him, grinning. “I think I might be able to do something.” Dean smiled back before they came together, kissing as quietly and lazily as the snow falling outside. Without breaking the kiss, Castiel turned around to face Dean. He cradled Dean’s jaw with his palm, slowly rubbing back and forth along his stubble. Dean sighed into him, his hand roaming up and down Castiel’s hip and thigh.

They’d only slept on the couch that first night. Every other night for the last eight days, they’d been in Dean’s bed. It felt much longer than that.

But, in such a short time, they were learning things about each other. Small things that added up to the bigger picture. What kind of toothpaste Dean used: cinnamon, not mint. How Castiel slept: on his side with the blanket practically burritoed around him. What Dean’s favorite color was: red. What kind of music Castiel listened to: whatever was on the radio, and jazz. What Dean’s favorite movie was: _Road House_.

They generally avoided talk about the big things, like Anna or Mary. Like Castiel’s parents, or John. Like what would happen when Castiel had to move on to his next case.

Like how maybe, just a little bit, Castiel was falling head over heels in love with Dean. With all the Winchesters, really; but Dean was different. Special. Remarkable.

Castiel deepened the kiss—and then his phone on the nightstand started to ring. He gasped and ripped himself away. There could only be one person calling him, and it could only be about one thing. He looked over his shoulder at the lit up screen. His breath was coming out choppily and adrenaline rushed through his ears. He had no idea if that was from kissing Dean or from the prospect of the phone call.

“No, no, no—Cas,” Dean whined, pressing his fingers to Castiel’s cheeks in an attempt to pull him back in. “Leave it. Leave it.”

“It’s Gabriel,” Castiel said. He put his hand on Dean’s chest and shoved him back, and Dean went still.

Castiel reached for his phone and checked the caller ID. He was right. It was Gabriel. He picked up and held the phone to his ear. “Gabriel.” His voice sounded rough and breathy. Damn it. This probably wouldn’t help his case, but he doubted it would matter very much when Gabriel inevitably recommended he pack his bags.

“Castiel?” Gabriel asked, sounding perplexed. “You okay? You sound a little out of breath.”

“Yes. I was . . .” he fished around his head for a lie, “jogging.”

He looked at Dean and raised his brow. Dean pulled down the corners of his mouth and shrugged, approving of the fib.

“Oh— _kay_ ,” Gabriel said, dragging out the word. Whether he believed it or not, he moved on. “Anyway. I heard back from HQ.”

Castiel went cold. This was it. This was the end. He kept his eyes on Dean, trying to ground himself, but that didn’t help because all he could think was, _you better start memorizing his every feature because you’re never going to see him again_.

“They said you can stay on the Winchester case.”

“Gabriel, I—” Wait. What? Did he just say he could stay? “What?”

“What’s he saying?” Dean whispered, so low he was practically only mouthing the words. Castiel waved him away, silently telling him to shut up. He didn’t need Gabriel to change his mind.

“Yeah, but there’s a catch.”

Of course. There always was.

“What is it?”

“Welp. Since Mary Winchester wants you to be the Guide on this, they want her to be as comfortable as possible when she—” he whistled, mimicking a sound an imaginary ball might make when it’s hit out of the park. “Ya know. Kicks it. But they’re not happy about how involved you’ve gotten with the family. They say this has never happened before and, because the Winchesters want you there so bad, you’re gonna be considered a loved one. So, this job’s gotta be pro-bono, buddy. You won’t get paid for it.”

Castiel’s brows knitted together. He’d been there for weeks. He had rent, bills to pay.

“ _Or_ ,” Gabriel went on, catching his interest, “there’s a candidate in Denver who hasn’t been assigned a Guide yet. You can take that job instead and get a big ol’ paycheck. Or, well, your usual paycheck.”

Castiel looked up, meeting Dean’s curious gaze. The pale morning sunlight made the green of his eyes stark, and flecks of gold swam inside them. He was everything Castiel had ever wanted without knowing he’d wanted it.

“So, what d’you say?” Gabriel asked. “Stay with the Winchesters, or go to Denver?”

Castiel kept staring at Dean. He stayed quiet for a long time.

Dean’s expression melted into concern. “Cas?”

Into the phone, Castiel said, “I’ll stay.”

///

It was decided that Mary’s departure date would be at the end of the week. Mary hadn’t wanted to delay, but Dean managed to talk her into a few extra days. He was probably hoping his mother would change her mind by then, but something told Castiel she wouldn’t—no matter how many times over the course of the week Dean asked, “And you’re _sure_?”

Or how many times he whispered to Sam when they thought no one could hear them, “And we’re sure?”

How many times Mary answered, “Yes, honey, I’m sure.”

Or Sam said, “I don’t know, Dean. But it’s not our decision.”

Castiel understood. It was real now, hanging over them like a storm cloud, building in pressure and turning black, waiting to burst. And, on the day Dean couldn’t stand to look at Castiel, falling back into old patterns of snipping at him and hurling insults, Castiel understood that, too. Especially when, that night, Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel’s middle and buried his face into his throat and wouldn’t let go. It was an apology easily accepted.

On the night before Mary’s departure, she insisted on all of them pitching in to cook dinner. It was some strange casserole dish that consisted mostly of corn chips and grease, but apparently it was a family favorite that had been around since Dean was a child. She got winded halfway through cooking, and Dean’s grin became a wattage dimmer as he took charge.

While eating, none of them addressed what would happen the following morning. The Winchesters reminisced about old memories— _remember whens_ and _that one time_ —and Castiel thought of the photographs scattered around the house, of a life lived, of lives cut short. He tried so hard to keep his thoughts centered around the sterile verbiage of the word “departure,” and yet he continuously found himself circling the word “death.”

After dinner, they went into the living room to watch _Casablanca_ , because it was apparently Mary’s favorite movie. But she fell asleep a quarter of the way into it. She’d been sleeping on the sofa for the last week and a half, unable to get up the stairs anymore. But Dean was adamant about her sleeping in her own bed that night. The brothers had to carry her up the stairs, and she laughed the whole way until a fit of coughing cut it short.

Upstairs, the four of them lingered around her bedroom door. She had her arm around Dean for support, and Dean said, “You guys turn in. I’m gonna get her ready for bed.”

“You sure?” Sam offered.

“Yeah, I got it. Unless you wanna help—”

“No, no. I’m good,” Sam said quickly, swiping his hands through the air, but his tone suggested he _did_ want to help. It was clear on his face, just as the firm set of purpose and determination was clear on Dean’s.

“’Night, Mom,” Sam said, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek before starting down the hallway to his room.

Castiel didn’t know why he was still there. He should have left this moment to the three of them. He pressed his lips together, trying his best to offer a smile when he said, “Goodnight, Mary.”

“Hey, wait, Castiel, come back here a second,” Mary called.

Castiel frowned, turning back around. Behind him, he was aware of Sam stopping midway down the hall to look over his shoulder. Even Dean’s face was lined with confusion.

Mary placed her hand on Castiel’s shoulder, dragging him in closer to Dean until their shoulders brushed. Her gaze flickered between the two of them, seemingly assessing them. It was uncomfortable, and Castiel had already been feeling awkward enough. His eyes slid to Dean in question. Dean looked back and pulled the corners of his mouth down to show he, too, was clueless.

“Yeah,” Mary then said, nodding once, as if she’d come to some kind of conclusion. “You look good together.”

Castiel blinked, his mind blanking. He had no idea what she meant. “Um . . .”

“Huh?” he heard Dean grunt.

“Just saying,” Mary told them, “if anything good came out of all this, it’s that you two met.”

Castiel’s mouth hung open, but no sound came out. He didn’t even know what he was expected to say. His limbs hung heavy around him, feet glued to the floor. And, despite that, there was a fluttering in his chest. He looked at Dean, and Dean didn’t look back. His head was bowed and turned away.

“Goodnight, Castiel,” Mary said, a smile in her voice. She and Dean stepped into her room, and the door closed gently and inch in front of Castiel nose. His face was burning.

He kept staring at the door, having completely forgotten any basic motor functions.

He blinked again. Suddenly, he became aware of the beat of his own heart. He turned, looked up, and found Sam still standing a few feet away. A smirk pulled at Sam’s lips before he continued on to his own room.

Castiel headed back downstairs. Eager to put his mind to work, he set in on the dishes in the sink. It was a poor distraction. Mary’s words kept echoing in his head.

 _If anything good came out of this_ . . .

Surely, he was misinterpreting her meaning. Because he was certain, if given the choice, Dean would rather have his mother than Castiel.

 _Anything good_.

Yes, perhaps something good had come out of it for Castiel. He met the Winchesters, after all. Even if it would all be over tomorrow, or a week from now, or a month.

He couldn’t dwell on that that.

 _It’s that the two of you met_.

He was scrubbing the casserole dish a little too hard. It was passed clean by that point, the sponge squeaking against the glass. The running water was hot, turning his skin red. Castiel breathed in. He set the dish on the drying rack and turned off the water.

He breathed out.

Mary’s words kept rattling around his skull. It sounded like she was giving her blessing.

When Castiel got back upstairs, he headed for Dean’s room. The light was already on, the door cracked open. He peered inside, keeping close to the door jam. Dean was sitting on the far side of his bed, his back facing Castiel. His shoulders were slumped, eyes downcast at the open shoebox propped on his knees. There was something in his hands, a small square that Castiel belatedly realized was an old photograph. There was an opened bottle of whiskey on the nightstand.

Perhaps that was the reason Castiel opened the door a little wider, the hinges creaking. “Dean?” he whispered, rapping his knuckles on the wood.

Dean didn’t look up. “Yeah, come on in, Cas.” His voice was scratched.

Castiel stepped inside, keeping his eyes on the line of Dean’s shoulders while he closed the door softly behind him. “What are you doing?” he asked, walking around the bed. He glanced inside the shoebox, finding it filled with more photos and memorabilia. He spotted a crinkled brochure of the Grand Canyon and a cheap plastic medal with the symbol for pi on it, among other things.

The picture in Dean’s hand was a little faded from time. It was of all four Winchesters, Dean a young boy and Sam an infant. Mary looked whole and healthy. Behind them, the tree in the backyard was full of leaves.

“Ah, just lookin’,” Dean said, gently tossing the photo back into the box.

Castiel sat beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight, gravity pulling him closer to Dean until their sides were touching.

Dean was staring down into the box, cradling its sides with both hands now. He said, “You’re not here to tell me death isn’t the end or some shit, right?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, perplexed. “Why would I tell you that?” If there was one thing he’d learned from his job, it was this: death was, in fact, the end. It was right there in one of the initial questions he had to ask every potential patient during their first interview. _Do you understand your departure is permanent and irreversible?_

“Isn’t that what people are supposed to say?” Dean asked, voice dripping with cynicism. “She’s in a better place?”

“Well, currently, she’s in her bedroom.”

Dean gusted out a loud huff and rolled his eyes, but Castiel still wasn’t inclined to give him any platitudes. They’d certainly never helped him when Anna died. He had come to check in on Dean, and perhaps be a comfort, but he was never good with words. He hoped his presence alone was enough, though he doubted it. Maybe Sam would be able to help Dean more.

But Castiel had to try. He wanted to try. For Dean.

“Do you,” he asked carefully, “believe she’s going to a better place?”

Dean’s mouth twisted downward. “I don’t believe in anything,” he answered, sounding sure. And then, “I guess it never really mattered to me, you know? Even when my dad died. I just kinda always thought—you live how you live and anything after that is _way_ above my paygrade. Literally above yours. And if there’s an afterlife, awesome. If not, I guess we’ll never really know the difference, right? Either way, it’s not anything to be afraid of.”

Castiel inclined his head, not really able to argue. He guessed he’d never really thought about it like that.

“But—” He exhaled, and it sounded shakier than before. “This is _Mom_. After tomorrow, she’s just gonna be gone and . . . Fuck, I don’t—I’m just supposed to be okay with the fact that I may never see again?” There was panic creeping into his voice. Anger. Castiel sat up a little straighter, as if ready to jump in should Dean need defending from some invisible assailant.

“What if I don’t? What if there really is nothing?”

From the side, Castiel saw tears prickling in Dean’s eyes. The tip of his nose was turning red and he sniffled sharply.

“What if I’m just leaving her in the dark alone and—Fuck.” He clasped his hand over his eyes swiftly.

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel said, hoping to calm him down. He laid a hand to Dean’s shoulder—and he realized he had no idea what to say to make it better. A thousand different concepts rattled around his mind, but he couldn’t shape them into words. He gave up trying to, and lamely settled on, “Dean, I wish I could protect you from this.”

Dean let his hand fall back to his lap. A muscle in his jaw leaped when he bit down hard.

“But I have seen many people die, and I promise you, you are not leaving her alone.” He slid his hand across Dean’s back, to his far arm, and hooked his chin on Dean’s shoulder. Dean breathed out and tipped his head to rest against Castiel’s. “You’ll be there with her, and so will Sam. And so will I. And we’ll do this together. And, like you said, no matter what, she will be at peace, I promise you, Dean.”

Dean was quiet. His throat clicked when he swallowed. After a few moments, he said, “You’re wrong, Cas. You, me, and Sam can’t be there for all of it. She’s gonna be alone. Everyone’s gotta be alone.”

Castiel let his eyes fall closed, dejected. He couldn’t find anything else to say. He felt as if he’d failed Dean.

But then Dean shifted. He craned his neck to look at Castiel, and Castiel tipped his head back to meet the gaze. Dean said, “Thanks.”

And Castiel didn’t understand. He hadn’t done anything.

Dean said, “For making sure we’re not alone for the living part.” And he said it like it was the only part that mattered.

Castiel was instantly consumed by the cresting wave of emotion that had crashed into him. He could hardly breathe under its pull. All he felt inside of him was pressure—in his lungs, his chest, his head, behind his eyes. He didn’t know how to say that Dean shouldn’t have been the thankful one. That Castiel had been the one who was alone—and now he wasn’t. Now, he had something to lose, and the thought of it terrified him. But maybe it didn’t matter, after all. Maybe what was important was that he’d found it in the first place.

“ _Dean_ ,” he breathed out, voice cracked.

Dean fit his hand under Castiel’s jaw and dragged him into a kiss. Castiel went easily, his eyes still open, watching the way Dean’s lashes fanned on his cheeks. Dean’s mouth tasted like whiskey and salt.

Castiel had _found him_. It was the only thing that mattered anymore.

The kiss was at an awkward angle. When it broke, Dean leaned away momentarily to set the shoebox on the floor. The sheets of the bed rustled as he turned his body into Castiel. They reached for each other, Dean’s hands on the back of Castiel’s neck, Castiel running his palms down Dean’s chest.

Dean’s lips were pliant but incessant, small and needy sounds coming up from the back of his throat.

Castiel didn’t have the right words before. He didn’t know how to tell Dean that he was there for him, that he would always be there when Dean needed him. He would stay—for as long as Dean wanted him. He didn’t have the words to tell Dean that Castiel would always need him, would always want him.

But, when Dean leaned slowly backward onto the pillow, dragging Castiel down with him, Castiel thought, maybe, words weren’t necessary.

///

“You understand that protocol—”

The rest of the sentence got stuck in Castiel’s throat. He swallowed, trying to unlodge it.

It was morning, a few hours after sunrise. The rays of light were streaming into Mary’s bedroom, hitting the foot of the bed. She was beneath the covers, still in her pajamas. She’d said there was no need to get dressed up, because, after all, she was “supposed to be comfortable, right?”

The folded black hood and nitrogen tank were next to her on the bed.

Sam was sitting beside Mary, his hand in hers and red rimming his eyes. Dean was perched on the corner of the bed’s end board, eyes fixed on his mother and expression drawn. Castiel was standing next to the bed, fisting his hands tightly at his sides to keep them from reaching out.

“Protocol forbids me from doing anything further to aid you in your departure,” he forced himself to finish. He’d said these same words so many times before, they’d lost their meaning. Suddenly, the meaning was found again.

“Yes, I understand,” Mary said. Her hand that wasn’t in Sam’s was toying with the ring hanging from its chain around her neck.

He forgot what he was supposed to say next. His eyes flashed to Dean. Dean looked back, but only for a moment before returning to Mary.

Castiel said, “And you don’t have any . . . doubts? About what’s about to happen? And you’re of sound mind and . . .” He didn’t want to say the last part, because he knew what the answer was. “You can still opt out.”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Dean dip his head sharply away to gather himself. On the bed, Sam sniffed wetly.

“Yes, I know,” Mary said, voice soft and smile softer. She let out a quick laugh. “But I guess there’s no use turning back now, right?”

Sam laughed, too, probably just to humor her. Castiel couldn’t bring himself to do the same. His eyes were burning.

He nodded, taking a step backward to give her room. “Take . . . take your time to begin.” He wanted her to take years and years.

Mary slipped her hand out of Sam’s and lifted it, reaching toward Castiel. He stared at it for a long second before stepping forward again and taking it. Her hand was warm and her eyes were a little wetter than before when she said, “Thank you, Castiel.”

He didn’t trust himself to speak. He reminded himself that this was her decision, and it was the right one. He believed that, even if it was hard to do so at the moment.

When her touch left him, she said, “Dean, come over here, sweetie.” Dean was already on his feet, striding quickly around the bed. He climbed up next to her on the mattress, sitting back on his ankles, like a small child seeking out their parent after having a nightmare.

“Yeah, I’m here, Mom,” he said, putting a firm hand on her shoulder. She placed one hand on his knee, and the other held Sam’s hand again. Castiel watched the three of them looking at each other. Brave smiles and teary eyes.

“C’mere,” she whispered, bringing them both in against her. The hug lingered, and Castiel felt wrong. This was a private moment. He should look away. He didn’t. He looked at Dean.

“It’s okay,” Mary was telling them before they pulled away. She touched her hands to their cheeks, turning to Dean first. “Dean,” she said, and the name was full of pride and love—and Castiel only knew that because he felt the exact same way. Mary looked at Sam as if she were still seeing that infant in the old photograph in Dean’s box. “Sam.” And then, “I love you both.”

“I love you, too, Mom,” Sam said softly.

“Love you, too.” Dean’s voice cracked. Castiel felt the faultline run through his body.

Mary let her hands fall away. “Okay,” she said, and that was all. No grand final words. Castiel didn’t know what could possibly be said, anyway.

She reached for the hood next to her, placing it on her lap for a few long seconds, and Castiel’s heartbeat sped up in the hopes that she would, in fact, opt out. It came tumbling down when she unfolded the material and slipped it over her head. Dean swallowed hard, visibly stopping himself from ripping it off. Sam looked to his brother.

When Mary reached for the tank, she didn’t pause before turning the gauge. Castiel couldn’t look anymore. He was aware of Mary holding out her hand blindly. Sam took it, and Dean folded his hand over theirs. His other one gripped Mary’s shoulder. He looked down at the comforter, shoulders shaking silently.

Castiel counted the seconds. She must have been unconscious by now.

They waited together. Dean’s hold never wavered, not even when, twenty-five minutes later, Castiel checked Mary’s pulse and found there wasn’t one. He felt his own pulse stutter.

The brothers would have to call an ambulance, to tell them they found Mary like that. Castiel would have to be gone for a few hours while the dust settled. More than anything, he wished he could stay and help them through it. It felt wrong, leaving.

He turned to Sam and Dean and nodded. Sam dipped his head and shuddered. Dean’s eyes fell closed. They didn’t open again for a long time.

///

The funeral was held three days later. It was open-casket, but Castiel could hardly bring himself to look inside at the body, with half a dozen layers of make-up on stretched skin, cold to the touch, feeling like cracked parchment to his fingertips. He hadn’t touched the body, but he remembered the feeling—from Anna. It wasn’t something he thought he’d ever forget, and it certainly wasn’t something he was willing to do again.

All he did was look. The woman inside appeared more like a wax figure than a human being. It held a vague resemblance to Mary Winchester—like the dollmaker only had a single photograph to work from, and thus couldn’t _quite_ get the details right.

The room was fragrant with the floral scent of the flower bouquets that crowded the pine coffin. It barely masked the tickling odor of chemicals and formaldehyde. Dozens of indistinct conversations took place around him. Tissue boxes were passed around. Every now and again, someone sniffled or sighed.

Sam’s almost-fiancée, Jessica, had flown in for the service a day ago. She was at Sam’s side next to the coffin now, offering a comforting touch to his arm or a smile when he needed it, shaking hands with those coming up to pay their respects. Castiel liked her. She seemed to be a good fit for Sam, and he was happy for his friend. But it was only a matter of time until Jessica returned to the west coast, and Sam followed her. And Dean would be alone.

Castiel would never assume he could fill the Sam-shaped hole in Dean’s life—or the one Mary left behind—but he hoped Dean would give him the chance to try.

He didn’t know if Dean would, especially when Dean would continuously meet his eyes across the room, holding his stare. Castiel supposed it was better than quickly averting his eyes, but he still wondered what Dean saw when he looked at him. A friend, a lover, or a reminder of his mother’s death.

In truth, Castiel didn’t know what was going to happen next.

All he knew was that, after Mary’s departure, Castiel had filled out the final paperwork and went to the supply store in town to fax it to the home office. His chest had been tight throughout the entire drive, and his fingers had hesitated over the fax machine’s keyboard when muscle memory should have punched in the number without requiring a moment’s thought. The constriction in his chest had ratcheted up to his throat, and then to his eyes. He’d just managed to get back into his car before the emotion caught up to him. It hit him with blunt force.

He hadn’t even known why he was crying. It was for Mary, yes. It was for Mildred Baker. It was for all the people he’d watched die. It was for Anna.

When everyone took their seats for the service, both of the brothers said a few words honoring their mother’s memory. Castiel was seated in the front row, the same pressure as before welling in his heart; but he didn’t think he would cry again. He couldn’t. Dean needed him. That much was clear when, after he’d finished speaking, Dean sat back down beside him and promptly slid his hand into Castiel’s lacing their fingers, holding tight.

Dean needed him.

Castiel wondered for how long.

///

After the funeral, a small reception was held at the Winchesters’ home. People dressed in black stood in small groups around drinks and plates of prepackaged cookies and cheese and crackers. They were talking in low murmurs, offering sad smiles. Every now and again, brief and quiet laughter broke the atmosphere. As jarring at it was, it always made warmth bloom in Castiel’s chest. Because it reminded him of Mary—not this somber affair. Laughter.

Each time it happened, he found himself staring off at one of the religious items around the house. He realized he’d never asked Mary why she’d decorated her home in such a way. He didn’t know why, but the thought caused his skin to prickle. Mary was gone and he hadn’t fully processed it until that moment.

Throughout the reception, Castiel had shaken hands with a number of people he’d likely never see again. He’d been asked the question “so, how did you know Mary?” at least a dozen times. It was awkward. He hadn’t been anticipating it, and he hadn’t known how to answer at first.

For years, death had followed him as if he were the Grim Reaper. Now that he was seeing the aftermath, all he could do was whisper a choked, “I’m a friend of her son’s.” Sooner than he thought, his answer became, “We were friends.”

He mostly stuck to a secluded corner, or he took Jess’ example of cleaning up where he could to take the burden off Sam and Dean. He watched as the brothers went from person to person. Sam usually stuck around longer, always nodding and listening attentively, always gracious with the kind words despite having heard them in similar variations all day. Castiel’s eyes normally followed Dean. Dean, who gave a few words in reply—a “thank you,” a “thanks for coming”—to each person before moving on. Dean, whose eyes remained distant and out of focus. Dean, who hadn’t so much as feigned a smile all day.

After a couple of hours, when the group had thinned out some, Castiel returned from the kitchen, where he’d been helping Jess put out more snacks; he quickly noticed Dean wasn’t present. A numb sensation swept over his body at the realization, and he remembered that night a few weeks ago when he had to drag a belligerently drunk Dean off a barstool. An empty pit writhed in his gut at the thought of Dean being in such pain.

He shook himself, trying not to jump to conclusions. Perhaps Dean had just excused himself for a moment. Still, Castiel’s feet led him to the front door, eager to ensure the Impala was still in the driveway.

However, when he stepped out into the biting chill of the crisp afternoon, his eyes were immediately drawn to the figure leaning against the trunk of the old, decaying tree in the yard. Dean’s head was bowed, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket to protect from the cold. The knot of the black tie around his neck was pulled loose. Above him, all the leaves had fallen from the tree, leaving behind spindly, sharp branches and limbs that appeared one strong breeze from snapping off. Castiel was surprised it could even hold Dean’s weight against it without toppling over.

Castiel pulled the front door closed behind him and descended the steps to the walkway. He rubbed his chapped hands together, puffing hot breaths into them that did very little to combat the redness already overcoming his fingertips. The air was a cloud in front of his lips before it faded to nothing.

“Dean,” he called as he approached, the frozen grass crunching under his shoes. When Dean’s head snapped up, his nose and cheeks were pink, and Castiel wasn’t certain that was from the temperature. He didn’t mention it. He settled in front of Dean, looking into his eyes, a little red, making the green of them impossibly clear. “I wondered where you went.”

Dean cleared his throat before he spoke. “Uh, yeah. What I can say? Needed to get away from the constant onslaught of _sorry for your loss_.” The joke fell flat. His eyes flashed toward the house, and he seemed a bit overwhelmed. “There’s just, uh . . . a lot of people in there.”

Castiel’s face dawned with realization. “You want to be alone.” He should have known that immediately when he saw Dean standing out in the cold. He shouldn’t have come.

Dean tipped his head to the side and pulled down his mouth in ways of an answer.

“I’ll just—” Castiel said, already turning away, but Dean grabbed his shoulder, halting him.

“No, no, it’s cool, Cas. You don’t count,” he said. Castiel tilted his head to the side, wondering if he should be offended. Dean scoffed out a small laugh and amended, “Ya know. In a good way.”

It was a strange compliment, but Castiel had to fight back a smile all the same. “Well, then,” he said, leaning against the tree next to Dean. The wood creaked, and it sounded hollow inside, likely eaten by bugs. Still, it held steady. “I’m happy to not count.”

Dean chuckled again at the ground before falling silent. On the street, tires crunched on asphalt as someone drove by. Castiel watched Dean’s profile for a few long seconds, taking him in. The last funeral he’d attended had been Anna’s, and all Castiel had been then was numb. He’d been that way for quite a long time. But not anymore. Dean was a vast wealth of emotion, and Castiel supposed he’d reminded him how to feel.

“How are you, Dean?” he asked, and maybe it was a stupid question. Not to mention, one Dean had likely left the house to escape in the first place. He’d probably heard it a thousand times that day.

But perhaps Dean knew that Castiel was _really_ asking. He sucked in a shaky breath as he turned his head to look back. “I dunno,” he answered. “I mean, it’s not like we didn’t know this was coming, right?”

Castiel shook his head. He crushed some grass with the toe of his shoe. “No,” he said, “but that doesn’t make it easier.”

“You can say that again,” Dean said, his voice somewhere near a laugh. “I guess I just never really thought of what’s next, ya know? I mean, Sam’ll probably go back to California eventually. And . . . I dunno—maybe I’ll keep the house for a little while? But without anybody else here . . .” He let himself trail off, and Castiel tried not to let the fissure of disappointment that ran through his heart reach his lungs. He didn’t even know why it was there. He hadn’t expected Dean to ask him to stay longer than required—but, perhaps, deep down, he’d hoped.

But this wasn’t about him.

“It’ll be weird,” Dean finished. “People always said, when Mom was gone, I could _get back to normal_. But none of this feels normal.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say to that. He crossed his arms over his chest, partly to guard himself against the windchill without his coat, but also to keep himself from reaching out to Dean. “No, it doesn’t,” he agreed. It wouldn’t feel normal at all, returning to Boston.

They stayed quiet for a long time. Castiel pulled his arms tighter around himself, trying to keep himself from shivering. He looked back at the house, imagining the crowd of people inside, all of them reminiscing as they looked at the framed photographs on the walls and the mantle, picking up the small decorations that Mary had kept scattered about the house. The question popped into Castiel’s mind again, and it was nagging suddenly.

If he couldn’t ask Mary what their significance was, perhaps Dean could give him an answer.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said, turning back to Dean.

Dean lifted his eyes and shrugged. “I guess.”

“Your mother kept a good amount of items from various religions around the house, but she had a secular service at a funeral home . . .” It wasn’t exactly a question, but he knew Dean understood where he was going with it.

Dean shuffled a little, pushing his shoulder back against the tree’s rough bark. “Mom wasn’t really religious,” he started. “She was more . . . spiritual, I guess you could call it. Didn’t really believe in God or anything like that. More like—all the gods. Or what they represent, anyway. Forces or whatever. I dunno, she was always pretty into that crap.”

Castiel raised a brow at the word choice. Even if Dean didn’t believe in an afterlife, Castiel assumed he believed in _something_ because, “Your tattoo . . .”

“Ah, me and Sammy got those for Mom when she was first diagnosed,” he explained, dismissing it with a wave. “Neither of us really thought they were gonna protect our family or . . . save her.” His last words were whispered. He looked down again, mouth pinching and twisting.

Castiel hadn’t expected him to say more, but Dean continued, voice a little thicker, “But I guess maybe part of me thought . . . _maybe_. She believed it, so maybe there was something to it.”

Castiel nodded. “My parents were the same. Listening to them, I sometimes thought prayer was the best medicine. But it wasn’t.” He remembered watching them in the chapel of Anna’s hospital. He’d been right beside them, kneeling, begging for a miracle. “I’m not certain I believe anymore.”

“Since your sister?” Dean asked knowingly.

Kneeling. Praying. Begging. Castiel had tried so hard to be genuine in his prayers. He always felt like he was lying.

“Maybe even before that,” he mused.

“Yeah, well, maybe we’re the idiots,” Dean said, in the hopeful way of non-believers who’d be happy to be proven wrong. “Maybe we _will_ see ‘em again. Or maybe they’re some force or, hell—I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe that’s not the point.” He knocked his head back against the tree and sighed, “Maybe the point is to take the time you’ve got and . . .” His eyes swept up to Castiel’s, a world of green. “Spend it with the people you care about and hope it’s enough.”

Suddenly, the cold seemed very far away. Castiel swallowed, unable to break eye contact.

“You’re very wise when you want to be,” he said, meaning it as a tease. It came out heavier.

But Dean understood him perfectly. He laughed. And then, after a second, “Hey, Cas? You, uh . . . You said you’d stick around for as long as . . .” He licked his lips, as though mustering his courage. He forced out, “As long I . . . needed you.”

Castiel nodded, something like hope springing in his chest. At the same time, he told himself he was wrong. Dean would tell Castiel he no longer needed him. He’d tell Castiel to go home, because Dean no longer wanted the reminder. It would be too hard on him.

Still, he said, “Yes, Dean.”

“You meant that?”

Castiel nodded.

“No time limit?”

Castiel’s skin buzzed. He shook his head.

Dean puckered his lips in thought. Another laugh burst out of him. “Well, that’s good, ‘cause I was kinda thinking the rest of our lives. I mean, you don’t have plans or anything, right?”

Castiel felt his smile in his eyes, followed by a sting of pressure. He breathed in, nodding. When he was sure he could speak, he said, “I don’t have plans.”

When Dean kissed him, his lips were chapped. His hands were ice cold on Castiel’s sides as he fit them under his blazer, and Castiel assumed his touch was much the same Dean’s cheeks. Neither of them drew away. All of it thawed eventually as the seconds ticked on. Before long, Castiel felt feeling return to his fingers. He melted into Dean.

**END.**


End file.
